Silver Blaze
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Based on the ACD story Silver Blaze, but with the BBC characters, and my own spin. Sherlock is called away to investigate a double murder and a missing race horse, while John's marriage is foundering under the weight of real life. Ten chapters, some hurt and comfort, some angst, some humour, some friendship. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a case-fic based on the ACD original Silver Blaze. I have managed to sneak a whole heap of domesticity in there though. Or I haven't managed to prevent the domesticity creeping in; whichever way you choose to look at it. This technically follows on from my version of The Adventure of the Cardboard Box. It can be read as a stand alone though.**

**Special thanks are given to Rustyla who was kind enough to pick up any errors and give me the confidence boost I needed to publish this one. Any remaining errors are mine and not hers.**

**I'm hoping to publish a new chapter a day. It's mostly written; we're just polishing the last few chapters up now.**

**Pip xxx**

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Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes looked at the pair of keys he was holding in the palm of his hand. The smaller one was causing him some anguish. He tossed them lightly a couple of times, listening to the sound of them chink together as he caught them again and gauged their weight. Brass, he thought. The larger one was certainly made from brass; its colour gave it away. The smaller was probably made from brass too, but was coated with nickel. He contemplated taking it back to his flat to cut it in two to check his hypothesis. He was, however, able to see that naming the constituent parts of the key wasn't strictly the point of the key.

He tossed it again, wondering how such a little thing could be causing him such mental chaos.

He was standing outside the Watsons' flat door. He'd used the larger brass key to open the exterior door from the street. Now he was standing on the first floor, outside a wooden door with a shiny number '2' on it. The number was probably made of polished aluminium, he decided.

He couldn't help but notice he still hadn't opened the door.

John had been quite clear. He should have the key, not just for emergencies, but in case he wanted to visit at a time when neither he nor Mary was able to answer the door. He had been particularly firm on the point that Sherlock shouldn't do anything so selfish as buzzing the intercom, as he might wake anyone who might be asleep in the flat.

"I can't just walk in," he had insisted.

John had laughed. "Since when? You walked in on me in my room, in the bathroom, pretty much anywhere I happened to be when we were living together. I fail to believe you've suddenly developed a concern about my personal space."

"It's not your personal space; it's Mary's personal space."

"She won't mind."

"She might be undressed."

"She doesn't walk around the flat completely naked."

"You might be engaging in marital relationships."

John had stared, tired-eyed at him. "You mean sex?" he asked. "I can absolutely guarantee you that that won't be happening."

Sherlock had swallowed any further questions and had taken the key.

So here he was now, outside the flat with tacit permission to enter the flat, and yet it just felt so _wrong._

He toyed with the idea of just walking away, and waiting for John to visit him, but he knew that that would be truly ridiculous, and that he really wanted to talk to John _now._

He turned the key and opened the door, very slowly and very quietly.

The television was playing quietly in the lounge so he headed in that direction. Before he went in, he cleared his throat and muttered a quiet 'hello?' There was no answer so he rounded the corner and went inside and smiled at the sight he was met with.

John was asleep on the sofa. He probably wasn't meant to be; he hadn't put his feet up and his head was still propped on his right hand, his elbow still securely on the arm of the chair. His head was tipped slightly back and his mouth was open. His left hand was drooped over the handle of a red pram. He looked exactly as he would if he'd been quietly rocking or jiggling the pram before he was overcome with sleep. Mary was nowhere to be seen, so Sherlock went in to look into the pram.

Sure enough, there was the youngest Watson, Benjamin, commonly known as Benjy by his father at least. He was just beginning to stir, so Sherlock gently unhooked John's hand and pushed the pram across the room where he stood rocking it gently back and forth. Benjy settled down again. Sherlock sat down on one of the Watson dining chairs and continued to rock the pram. He took the opportunity to examine the baby a little. He hadn't changed vastly since he'd last seen him ten days ago. He tried to find some feature that would mark him out as particularly John's or particularly Mary's, but he failed to find one. It wasn't that he doubted the boy's parentage; it was that he felt he ought to be able to say something beyond, 'he looks like a typical, generic baby.' He had managed not to say this yet; he'd commented on his ears, fingers, nose, cheeks, dimpled chin and pudgy hands, but he was rapidly running out of neutral statements.

John emitted a loud snore, and his head tipped back just enough for it to unbalance and drop down to the arm of the sofa. He woke at the first touch and sat up, woolly headed.

"Benjy?" He rubbed his face, blinked around the room and located Sherlock. "Oh. Hello."

"I thought I'd have a quick look at him while you were sleeping."

"I wasn't asleep!"

Sherlock glanced at him. "You were…"

"I wasn't asleep!" John rubbed his face again. "Do you want a cup of coffee? Or do you just want to sit there arguing with me?"

"I have time for coffee."

"Mm. Good." John heaved himself up and walked past Sherlock towards the adjoining kitchen. He glanced into the pram as he passed Sherlock and smiled at his child. For a second, Sherlock felt John looked bright, alert and relaxed for the first time in weeks. "He's a good little boy, isn't he!"

"He certainly seems to be growing within the accepted parameters."

John laughed. "Only you, Sherlock. Only you with the 'accepted parameters'. Most people say, 'Gosh! Hasn't he grown?'"

"Well of course he's grown! I haven't seen him for ten days and he's three months old. He's generating new cells a rate he'll never attain again. If he _hadn't_ grown for ten days, then that would be a fact worth getting excited about."

John shook his head and went through to put the kettle on. He came back to lean on the kitchen divide.

"So, are you working on anything?"

"Maybe. Have you heard about the disappearance of Silver Blaze?"

"That race horse, yeah, I caught something about it on the news. Trainer did it, didn't he? Stole the horse then topped himself because of the guilt, and then the horse wandered off and got lost."

"I see the tabloids have furnished you with the crime, criminal and motive. They're getting good."

"So that didn't happen?"

"No, I'm reasonably certain that didn't happen. I'm not sure what did happen, which is why I'm going to go down to Dartmoor to find out. I'm here to see if you want to come with me."

John sagged. "No, Sherlock. I've explained this a number of times; I'm not going to be able to drop everything and work on cases at a moment's notice any more."

"It's not a moment's notice; I'm not going anywhere until tomorrow morning, and you said; 'not for the first few months at any rate.' I took 'few' to be three in this instance."

He watched John quietly calculate the age of his child before shaking his head.

"I just can't, Sherlock. Sorry; it's not a good time."

Sherlock glanced around the room. It was as neat and tidy as always, though there was a thin layer of dust over the family pictures and trinkets that were displayed on the sideboard. There was a pillow and a sleeping bag poking out from behind the sofa, and a very slight depression on one of its arms. John himself was looking a little dishevelled.

"No," he said quietly. "Well, it was just a thought."

They looked up as Mary came into the room, wearing a track-suit top over her pyjamas. She stopped sharply when she saw Sherlock, and she gave him a thin smile.

"Sherlock! I didn't know you were here. I didn't hear the intercom."

Sherlock noted John's sudden fascination with the flooring.

"No," he said. "I texted John when I got here. He told me not to wake you up when I told him I was coming."

"Oh. Well you could have told me we were expecting someone," she said to John. "I'd have put some clothes on and tidied up."

"Do you want some tea?" John asked her.

"I'll do it." She walked past him into the kitchen.

There was a short, tense silence before John cleared his throat.

"So, they want you to dash down to Dartmoor to find a missing racehorse, do they?"

"Yes, apparently so," Sherlock said with a smile. "It's interesting; I'd have thought they were much more interested in me solving the potential double murder, but no, they're all up in arms about the horse."

"It's worth millions."

"But how can we put a price on human life?"

John laughed. "Don't quote me back at me. I don't like it. Also, these days I forget whatever I might have said at any given point." He came back into the room and sat down on another dining chair. "So, do you want to fill me in on the details?"

"Are you sure you'll stay awake?"

"He didn't sleep did he?" Mary said, coming in with two mugs. She put one down next to Sherlock. "You told me you wouldn't sleep."

"I didn't sleep," John insisted.

"Oh for God's sake, it's four! Why did you let Ben sleep so long when I specifically told you to wake him at three? Don't you know he'll never get to sleep tonight now?" She took the pram from Sherlock. "Can't you find a nice case somewhere far away and take him with you for a while." She pushed the pram away to her room, taking the other cup of tea with her.

Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. There was a distinct lack of a third cup anywhere.

"I'll make my own," John muttered. "She's just tired and forgot; that's all." He walked through and refilled the kettle, and Sherlock followed him. "Ben's not the most settled of sleepers."

"I'm sure it will all settle down," Sherlock said.

"Yeah. But you can see why it wouldn't be a great time for me to just sod off somewhere right now, can't you?"

"I can. It's fine." He hesitated. "John, if there's anything I can do, you'll just tell me, won't you?"

John grimaced. "And what might that be, exactly?"

"I don't know; that's why you'd have to tell me. But assuming it was legal and within my powers…. Well, assuming it was within my powers, you just need to ask."

John smiled and slapped him on the arm. "Thank you, but there's nothing. It's my marriage, and I have to sort it out." He opened the fridge and looked inside. "There's no milk." He screwed up his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "OK, I need to go and get milk."

"Do you want me to go for you?"

"No, I'm spare right now. Do you want to stay here?"

"No, I should be getting on. I'll walk with you though."

They left together and John seemed to pick up a little when he was in the fresh air, or at least, out of the flat.

"She's really very tired," John said. "You have to excuse some of her rudeness right now."

"Of course. She wasn't rude to me at all."

"No. It's restricted to me at the moment, so that's something." He smiled grimly. "She has Ben all night, and he's still waking fairly erratically. She doesn't want to switch to bottle feeding, even with expressed milk, so she's pretty much on call for him all night, and some nights are still bad." He yawned widely.

"And the sofa doesn't look too comfortable for you either."

"No, I don't get more than a couple of hours in a row even on the nights when Ben sleeps. And on the nights when he wakes, it's not like I don't hear him, even if I'm not allowed to enter the room. So I can forgive her for thinking that I'm tired and grouchy, because I am. Plus I'm hardly behaving like a saint myself. I know I'm not and I just can't find the energy to care any more." He glanced at Sherlock and shook his head. "Sorry. You don't want to hear about the mundane nonsense of my marriage."

"It's fine."

"I'm just…" he broke off and shook his head again. "I wish I could pinpoint when I started lying to her routinely though. It's never big things…" he broke off and looked into the distance. "Well, it's not usually big things. I think I've got to the point where I'll say pretty much anything to avoid the row." He sighed. "Sorry. This really is dull."

"It's fine," Sherlock said again.

"No, it's dull. It's dull for you, it's dull for Mary, and it's dull for me. Anyhow, here's the shop." He stopped and rummaged through his pockets. "I've got to go back for my wallet." He stared blankly at the wall.

"No." Sherlock fished out his wallet and took out a five pound note. "You can pay me back next time you see me."

"Thank you." He stepped towards the shop but stopped again. "And now it's just occurred to me that I've left my keys at home, and I'm going to have to ask her to buzz me in. She'll love that."

Sherlock fished the spare ones out of his pocket. "I really think you should have these back anyway."

John looked at them for a while before taking them. "Yeah. You're probably right. Thank you."

"It's fine. I should get on now though."

"OK. See you then. When you get back you'll have to fill me in on this missing horse case."

"Of course I will. It shouldn't take more than a day or two."

"Then I'll see you then." He smiled and Sherlock turned to go. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He turned back.

"I just wanted to… Look, don't worry about all of this stuff." John waved vaguely towards his flat. "Seriously, what couple copes with new parenthood without any minor wobbles? That's all it is; it's just we have a twelve week old baby and we're still finding our feet with him. That's all."

Sherlock smiled. "Good. I thought it might be something like that."

"Well that's all it is. We're tired and grouchy and a bit thrown by the baby thing."

Sherlock smiled and gave a brief nod. "I'll see you soon."

"Yep." John disappeared into the newsagents.

Sherlock hailed a passing cab and climbed inside. His chin sunk to his chest and he spent the short journey deep in thought.

He wasn't completely surprised, at eleven that evening, when there was a ring on his doorbell. He padded downstairs and opened the door to find John standing on the doorstep with a rucksack on his back.

"Hi," John said, taking his time, and looking up and down the street. "Could you possibly put me up for a day or two?" he asked. "Sorry, I'd ask Harry, but I really, _really_ need a drink."

Sherlock reached out, took hold of John's arm, and pulled him into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much for the reviews. And once again, grateful thanks to Rustyla. Pip xxx**

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Chapter 2

Sherlock poured a good amount of scotch into a glass. He quickly looked at the back of John's head, just visible above the high back of his chair and at his right hand, fingers tapping away at the arm. He poured a little more into the glass and took it in to John.

"Thanks," John said.

Sherlock sat down in his chair opposite. "Right, so Silver Blaze, as you know, was the favourite for the Essex Cup on Saturday."

John stared at him, his drink motionless half way to his mouth.

Sherlock looked mildly embarrassed and shuffled a bit. "I really don't want to talk about your marriage."

John's eyebrows shot up.

"No, I don't mean to dismiss you," Sherlock went on. "I'm aware that this is probably causing you an amount of emotional turmoil, but I'm not an expert on these things, and I have no experience to speak of. I'll probably end up saying something that's at best misguided, and at worst, inappropriate." His expression suddenly cleared. "Oh! I can call Lestrade! He's divorced." He reached for his phone.

"No, please," John said. "I don't need to talk to Greg about divorce at nearly midnight on a Tuesday night."

Sherlock lowered his phone and looked at the door. "Mrs Hudson then. She's experienced, and she doesn't have to get up for work tomorrow."

"You killed her husband. Not exactly the experience I'm looking for."

"I did not. I've explained that story some three or four times."

"It's fine. I don't need to talk to Mrs Hudson."

"Mike? He can at least get riotously drunk with you."

John shook his head. "No. I'm fine, Sherlock." He stared at the window. It was just beginning to rain, and the streetlights were sparkling through the raindrops on the glass. "I'm not fine," he said. He looked back at Sherlock. "However, I think we should both accept the fact that I'm not ready to admit to anyone else that my marriage is about to fail. I'm here because it's not like you had high expectations in the first place, so you're not going to judge me harshly." He smiled, grimly. "You're stuck with me for now, so why don't you tell me about this race horse then."

Sherlock hesitated and quickly examined John, and then he nodded.

"Silver Blaze, like I say, was favourite for the Essex cup on Saturday, before he mysteriously went missing on Monday night of this week." He checked his watch. "Just over twenty-four hours ago. The horse was owned by Colonel Brendan Ross, and trained at King's Pyland stables by John Straker. The stable is a small one, there are only four other horses in there along with Silver Blaze. Three stable hands work there, two men in their early twenties and a girl of a similar age. Despite the small scale, the security is top notch; like you say, these horses are worth millions." He broke off and looked at John. "Did you leave, or did she ask you to go?"

John was startled from his daydream. "What?"

"Sorry. It occurs to me that I don't know. I can't tell. Under normal circumstances I'd suggest that you'd never leave by your own suggestion, but I don't think we're in normal circumstances at the moment."

"Oh." John frowned, remembering. "I don't actually know. There was a row; she may have yelled at me to get out; I may have yelled that I was going, but I can't honestly tell you which order it all happened in. Sorry."

"No, that's fine." Sherlock shook himself. "As I was saying, the security at King's Pyland is pretty good for a small stable. The area is fenced and alarmed and there are security cameras fixed on the stable block, and on the general office and tack rom. As well as all of this, Mr Straker insists that one of the stable hands sleeps in the stables overnight. The other two hands have the house next door to Straker's, just two hundred meters away down a narrow road."

"Where does Ross live?"

"In Tavistock, which is only two miles to the North."

"So there's him, Straker and three stable hands, all within a two mile radius?"

"Yes. And Edith Straker, John's daughter. She's twenty, and though she takes on some of the same work as the other stable hands, she lives in her father's house and doesn't take part in the night watching rota. Edith is important to our little tale though. We'll see more of her later."

He glanced up with a smile, but was alarmed to see John's eyes filled with tears.

"Do you want to be alone?" he asked.

John shook his head firmly and blinked the tears away. "No, absolutely not. Go on. Tell me about yesterday night."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll tell you about yesterday morning first. Actually I won't; there are a few other geographical markers to fill you in on. King's Pyland is, as I say, two miles South of Tavistock, and two miles further south of it is a rival stable. It's called Mapelton Stables."

"Mapelton? That's where Jennifer's Lad is trained."

Sherlock frowned. "You've been following the case?"

John's face was suddenly wooden and still. With a certain amount of effort, he answered. "I've been following the racing," Sherlock didn't sigh, or exclaim, or even change his expression. "Don't judge me," John said quietly.

"I'm not. How could I? I'm just sorry that it led to a row, and I wish you'd come to me for the money, that's all."

"It didn't lead to a row. And this isn't one of those things that you can just throw money at. In fact, it's the complete antithesis of something you can throw money at. Money throwing has already been far too much of a problem."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Can you tell me about Jennifer's Lad?" he asked. "I've heard the name mentioned in relation to the case and the deepening rivalry between the two stables, but if you have further details I'll be glad to hear them."

John cleared his throat and nodded. "Silver Blaze is the favourite for the Essex, and he's certainly riding on a great little winning streak at the moment, but he meets Jennifer's Lad on Saturday for the first time. Jennifer's Lad's come out of nowhere. He wasn't even racing in the first half of the season, and he's won his three most recent flat meetings. There has been talk about drugs and the like, because people like to do that, but according to the officials he's been tested like all the others, and he's just a really, really good horse. According to Silas Brown, he's the trainer at Mapelton, and his owner, what's his name… Charles Blackwell, some city type I think he is, according to the two of them, he wasn't raced early because he wasn't ready. He's a year younger than Silver Blaze, and they didn't want to stress him early."

"So the Essex is very much a two horse race?"

"Pretty much, and it's going to be a damned good one too. Blaze is still the bookies' favourite, and they've put his odds on accordingly. The thing is, Jennifer's Lad is looking more and more likely, and the odds on him were getting shorter and shorter. I reckon that's why people are dripping out this nonsense that he's younger, he's not been tested over this distance and so forth. It's all a game to try to keep those odds high and the betting low. The thing is, a lot of people saw this coming and put money on three or four weeks ago when it was still only speculative that Jennifer's Lad would make it to Essex at all."

Sherlock observed him for a few seconds.

"Thank you. That certainly puts a new spin on the situation. Would you go so far as to suggest that a large number of people stand to gain if Silver Blaze were to fail to attend on Saturday."

"Yeah, definitely. Well, assuming that Jennifer's Lad wins."

Sherlock watched, mildly horrified, when John's face suddenly fell. His eyes welled again, and he struggled to fight the oncoming tears. His hand went to his mouth and he shook his head.

"What am I doing here, Sherlock? What am I doing here, talking to you about betting odds as if it's all completely normal?"

"I…"

John shook his head again and ploughed on.

"What the hell are we doing, sat talking like this and completely ignoring the fact that I've messed up my marriage, my life, and probably my child so, so, so _stupidly!_ I can't believe…I still can't believe it." He tried to breathe through the tears and wiped his face. "I keep telling myself that it's all wrapped up in Benjy, and it's just early days, but it's not. It's three months, and it's getting _worse_. I keep thinking that maybe Mary has post natal depression, but I know full well that's she's absolutely fine and happy when I'm not around! And I know things had been going wrong for a long time before Ben was born. IVF was horrible. It was awful and not dignified, and we just didn't talk about it. Heaven forbid either of us should admit a weakness or a struggle to the other. I think she thinks that I pushed her into it. Then pregnancy was complicated and hard work, and we used that as an excuse instead. Mary told me I fussed too much and she needed some space every single day, and I ignored it and pretended it was all a funny joke, and she started to hate me for it."

He took a couple of deep breaths but started talking again, and it all tumbled out of him.

"I basically kept myself under control until after he was born, but it got worse. I don't know what it is, but the way it feels…the way it feels is that she simply doesn't love me anymore. And I've forgotten…I've forgotten what it even felt like when she loved me. That's how it feels; like she just wants to amputate the part of the relationship that's not working now."

John sniffed and sobbed desperately. Sherlock got the impression that John's words were coming straight from the glass of scotch he'd swallowed, and were bypassing his brain or any other part of his body that he used for thinking from time to time. He remained quiet and still, and he waited.

"I love Ben," John said, "I love him so much that it aches sometimes. But she won't let me get close to him. She chooses everything; when he eats, when he sleeps, what clothes he wears, how _their_ routine works. I don't need a routine with him, apparently. Hell, I can't even change a nappy according to her specification. And I keep saying, this is normal; this is just all those protective, maternal instincts and it's all completely normal. And I'd say that still if it wasn't for the fact that pretty much anyone else is allowed to express an opinion, or to pick up my child, or buy him a frankly hideous outfit, but when I buy one sleep suit, just _one,_ by myself without any input or approval from her, I'm told it's the wrong colour and it has to go back. _Colour_ for heaven's sake. How can a sleep suit for a new-born baby possibly be the wrong colour?"

John wiped his face again, and Sherlock sat quietly and waited.

"So I left her to it, her and her sister and her friends at their baby shower with _my_ tiny son. I went out to exchange the perfectly good sleep suit, and I was angry, I was really angry about it, so I went into the Ladbrokes I just happened pass, and put twenty quid on Heart's Flame. I only picked her because I thought it was funny to call a horse something that sounded like a description of indigestion. She bloody won, and I'd forgotten, I'd forgotten how bloody good that feeling is. Straight down from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, and it was brilliant."

John swallowed and sighed, and Sherlock waited.

"You don't know how many times I've told myself that if the bloody horse hadn't bloody won I wouldn't be in this mess. But it's a joke, isn't it, because if she'd have lost, I'd have just put another tenner on another horse. I know my MO. That's what I do. I play till I win, and if I win I've got an excuse play some more, because I'm a winner now! And the feeling of losing… the feeling of having the anger and the upset justified for bloody once, and knowing that that feeling will end if my horse just comes in…" He shook his head. "And I know that sounds ruddy ridiculous."

"You don't have to explain the nature of addiction to me, John. I know how it feels."

"Yeah." John breathed some more and wiped his face. "But I'm not even filling my body with chemicals that I have to withdraw from. I've just got to get a grip and not do it anymore, and I can't bloody stop. By God it's a good feeling!" He covered his face with his hands, as if he could hide behind them. "We argued about the exact date on which I'd paint the ruddy hallway!" he wailed. "All of this mess, all of it, which Mary doesn't even know about, because heaven help me I can't tell my wife the truth of it now, and we end up separating over when I'd paint the sodding hallway!"

"Thank God you hadn't started choosing a colour yet."

John couldn't hold back the guffaw and wiped his face. "It's ridiculous," he said, his voice high from his crying and his laughter. "It's the most ridiculous situation in the world!" He calmed down and looked at Sherlock. "What am I going to do?"

"I don't know."

"It has to be the most ludicrous, the most ridiculous addiction in the world."

"Last time I broke a window, Mrs Hudson made me do penance of helping Mrs Lansbury across the road clear out her back bedroom. It was floor to ceiling piles of stuff. All sorts of stuff, but mostly clothing, most of it never worn, the tags never taken out. Lots of it wasn't in her size, there was even stuff made of fabrics she's allergic to, but she can't resist a bargain, and she never knows when she might meet someone who's a size sixteen and who really likes bright red leather jeans. We walked seventy two bin liners full of clothes, and toys for children who don't exist, and books in languages she doesn't speak down the street and distributed it between four different charity shops. One of them begged us not to come back. I've watched Mrs Lansbury since, and the very next day she was back out there again, running up more debt on more store cards, checking that Mrs Hudson isn't watching her as she squirrels it all inside. Don't tell me that what's happening inside her brain and yours isn't every bit as compelling and destructive as what's happening inside Harry's and mine."

John's eyes filled again, but he nodded.

"There's no point comparing," Sherlock said. "It is what it is. Besides, we both know that I'd have been reaching for a needle at the first suggestion that there might be a baby on the horizon."

John snorted. "It's no excuse though. It was stupid."

"I'm not denying that. I'm just saying I understand it, that's all."

"Yeah." John drooped and shook his head. He seemed to have run out of words.

Sherlock decided it was all out of him now. "You should probably go to bed. I've booked us tickets on the seven o'clock train from Paddington, so you'll need to be up at six."

"Of course you booked me a ticket," John said blankly.

"I booked two just in case. If you need to borrow anything, just help yourself. I'd offer to show you around, but I think you know where your old room is."

John nodded, but didn't move.

"Goodnight then," Sherlock said, getting up. "If you need anything, just bang on my door."

John frowned. "What might I need from you in the middle of the night?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. Like I keep saying, you'd have to tell me."

"OK. Thank you."

Sherlock went into his room and closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John woke up in the morning to the sound of his phone, beeping plaintively. He scrambled to get to it, feeling vaguely hopeful and fearful, and then realised it was just the alarm that he'd set the evening before. His head throbbed, and he stared at the ceiling, wondering if he could possibly manage a trip to Dartmoor.

He thought he could probably manage a trip to Dartmoor better than he could manage several days in London on his own. He got up and padded down the stairs.

Sherlock's overnight bag was open on the sofa, and Sherlock was throwing various books and pieces of equipment into it. Mrs Hudson was frying things in the kitchen. Lestrade was talking to Sherlock from John's armchair, while Sherlock scowled.

"All I'm saying is, if you could please make sure that there is something of the Devon and Cornwall Police left when you've finished there, that would be good."

"They asked me to do the job, didn't they?"

"Yeah, but I think that's because they don't actually know you."

"So they want me to find the horse, solve the double murder, _and_ to do so politely, do they?"

John looked into the hold-all. "You have remembered to pack underwear this time, haven't you?"

"That was an oversight!" Sherlock stopped and looked at the bag though, and then marched past Mrs Hudson in the kitchen on the way to his room.

"There's coffee for you, John," Mrs Hudson called to him. "I'm making you a sausage sandwich for the train, for stamina."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He picked up the coffee and sipped at it appreciatively. He watched her back and wondered how much Sherlock had let her know about the night before.

Sherlock came out of his room with a handful of pants and socks. "John's separated from Mary, but the way," he said as he passed through.

John lurched and spilled his coffee on his hand. "Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson turned to him, horrified, while Lestrade stood and managed a 'Mate…' but not much else.

"What?" Sherlock asked, as John gave him his angriest glare. "You said you didn't want to talk to them about it. Not that you didn't want them to know."

Mrs Hudson fussed at John with a damp cloth for his hand. "What happened, John?"

"I don't…" He shook his head. "I'm not sure. I think it's just one of those things."

"Is it permanent?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know that either. It happened yesterday, and we haven't spoken since. When we do, I'll know a bit more." He gave a tight 'can we stop talking about this' smile.

"But have you tried counselling or something?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"I suggested counselling ages ago, but, well…we didn't."

"Oh, John." She gave him a look of such sympathy that he wanted to weep again. He looked across to where Sherlock was standing in the living room. He looked slightly unnerved, as if he might have misjudged the situation.

"God, well, good luck with it and all that," Lestrade said. "I hope you manage to sort it all out with her."

"Yeah, me too."

Mrs Hudson sighed and shook her head.

"I'd better be off," Lestrade said. "I just popped round to compare notes with Sherlock before he left. Try and keep him out of trouble, won't you?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe I want him in trouble for a little bit."

"Well, just try to keep everyone alive. Well, everyone who's not already dead anyhow; I know you have your limits."

Lestrade gave him one last concerned nod and disappeared through the door.

John sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. Sherlock came in and loomed over him until John looked up.

"I'm sorry if I miscalculated," he said quietly.

"No. It's fine. Now people know and I didn't have to tell them."

"Of course we want to know," Mrs Hudson said from her frying pan. "And if there's anything you need, you should just say."

"Thank you."

Sherlock watched him. "Are you still going to come with me? It's quite all right if you want to stay and have Mrs Hudson look after you for a bit."

"I'll air your room out for you," she said. "And I can roast a chicken for your lunch."

John smiled. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, that's very kind of you. It's far too kind, given the circumstances. But I'd like to go with Sherlock if that's OK. I think the Dartmoor air might be good for me." He frowned. "You won't experiment on me again, will you?"

"No, of course not!" Sherlock walked away. "You're all over the place at the moment. The results wouldn't be at all reliable."

John rolled his eyes.

He shoved Sherlock out on to the street at quarter to seven. Mrs Hudson was still happily insisting that she could be left with the washing up and any other little bits of cleaning that needed to be done, and Sherlock similarly protesting that the fridge was neither messy, nor unhygienic, and that everything in it could be left until his return. Mrs Hudson nodded happily, and insisted that she really didn't mind doing a big reorganisation while he was gone.

John shoved Sherlock into a cab before lives were lost.

"She's going to throw my liver away," Sherlock grumbled.

"Yep, it does look that way," John agreed.

"It's _important_," he said, sourly. "Just because she doesn't understand it, it doesn't mean it isn't important."

He settled down to sulk for the rest of the cab journey, and John took the opportunity to close his eyes and think about nothing at all.

They bustled through Paddington station, John antagonising Sherlock further by stopping to buy more coffee on the way through, but eventually they found their seats on the train and prepared to get comfortable for the journey. The carriage was quiet and they stretched their legs, and Sherlock dropped a large pile of newspapers on the table between them.

"Oh, yes," John said. "You were going to fill me in on what happened on Monday morning before I chose to have my little tantrum last night. So what happened on Monday morning?"

Sherlock sat back. "We can't be sure if it's significant or not at this time, but on Monday morning, at about ten o'clock, so after the morning rides were complete and the stable day was in full flow, somebody tried to gain access to the stables."

"How? You said it was secure."

"It is secure and the intruder didn't get very far. One of the stable hands, Nathan Clarke was working at the time with Edith Straker…"

"The trainer's daughter?"

"The same. The two of them approached the man together. He was trying the gate, and had started to climb it, but he jumped back to the ground on the outside as they approached. He was very friendly, and explained to them that he just wanted to have a look around, and seemed very surprised to hear that it was a professional racing stable, and even more surprised to hear that Silver Blaze was lodged there. He had heard of the horse though, and offered them a handful of banknotes to be allowed to see it."

"So he was passing just by chance, but he happened to have a tidy sum in cash on him."

Sherlock smiled. "Fortunately, our young lovers were just about wise enough to think that this man was up to no good. Unfortunately not until after they'd advised him about their security, their night watching duties and a wealth of other information."

"Lovers?"

"Yes. Edith eventually engaged her brain cell and started her phone to call her father, at which point the gentleman said he meant no harm, and he wouldn't keep them up anymore."

John grinned. "And coincidentally, the horse they were chatting about went missing that very day."

"Yes. Coincidentally."

John frowned. "You don't think he's involved. But the suicide story doesn't much grab you either?"

"There's no evidence to suggest he was involved as yet, but the suicide isn't convincing either. Unfortunately most of the Devon and Cornwall Police seem to think it should be one or the other."

"They hired you though. Why, if they think they're sorted?"

"One of them seems to be a tiny bit more imaginative than the others. Chief Inspector Gregson is who we're going to meet, apparently. He's eager to work with me and got in touch via Lestrade. Anyhow, he does seem to agree with me that to work out a hypothesis without having all of the facts is a cheap trick of the press, and apparently the rest of Gregson's force. They've got a man-hunt going for this mysterious stranger." He nodded to the pile of papers. "They've got some parts of the story right though. The horse _is_ missing. John Straker is dead, as is Nathan Clarke…"

"The kid?"

"The stable hand, yes, though the paper's don't seem nearly so interested in his death. It was his turn to cover the night shift in the stable. Edith went back to the stables at eight in the evening to give Nathan something to eat. They chatted for a briefly, but she dutifully went home to her father. It was later in the evening that she returned there. She crept back along the path to the stables, but it became quickly apparent to her that something was wrong. The gate wasn't locked; it usually has a spring lock that opens with a code, but she was able to push the gate open."

"Wait; the keypad wasn't working and the gate set itself to open? Not locked?"

"Apparently so. Edith proceeded, calling out for Nathan. When she got to the room off the stable where the watchperson slept, she found that the lights were off too, and seemed that all the power had been cut. She reached around in the dark, still calling for Nathan, and eventually found his body by touch alone. At this point, she panicked, and without thinking further, she ran home."

"Poor girl."

"Indeed. And things got worse for the poor girl quite quickly. She ran to her own house only to discover that her father wasn't there. She isn't sure at what time he left, but she thinks he may have gone out to walk their dog. Getting more hysterical, she went next door to wake the other stable hands. They were already in bed and asleep, and it took a while for them to respond, by which time young Edith was pretty well past all sense. They were just about able to get out of her that there was trouble at the stables. Both of them, this is now Adam Cale and Sarah Finnegan, ran back down the lane to the stables. The power was still off, but they at least had forewarning of the body. Cale stayed with the body in the little bedroom to call the police, meanwhile Sarah went through to the stables to check on the horses, at which point she discovered they were down by one horse."

"All in all, quite a lot of drama for them in one night."

"Yes. It hadn't ended there. Cale and Finnegan waited for the police and then for an ambulance, giving statements, crying buckets and all of the usual stuff. It was about 2AM when they started back to their house. They'd left Edith crying on their sofa, but when they returned, she had gone, leaving the house door open. They used their spare key to go into Edith's house, but she wasn't there either. Nor, obviously, was Straker."

"Because he was dead on the moor."

"According to the papers. All we know at this point is that he was not in the house, and that his body was found the following morning on the moor. I have no idea where this suicide business came from. Probably an early hypothesis or someone attempting to think aloud." He nodded at the pile of papers on the table. "He was killed by his own weapon according to provisional assessment of his body, but there were also clear signs of a struggle, and the weapon in question was a knife…"

"Doesn't matter whose it is then; if you go into a fight with a knife, there's no telling who will actually get stabbed with it."

"Precisely."

"So the suicide is discounted?"

"The suicide is unlikely, and has now been completely discounted by the local police. Their current working hypothesis is he gave chase to this random stranger, the one who was poking around in the morning, and that man had come back, cut the power and stolen the horse. Straker gave chase, and got stabbed for his trouble."

"Is that likely?"

"No. Apparently the local police are stupid."

John smiled. "There's a surprise. So we've got a missing horse, a missing girl, and two dead men?"

"Oh, no, I forgot to say; Edith came home yesterday morning. By all accounts she was dazed and shocked and hasn't been able to say much at all. Cale and Finnegan are taking care of her until her mother arrives from Australia…"

He broke off as John's phone rang. It was resting on the table between them and they both looked down at the picture of Mary on the screen. Sherlock watched John as he took his time answering it.

"Hello…," John said, feeling Sherlock's eyes bore into him. "OK…. Yes…. OK…. Fine. Fair enough…. I'm not being like anything," he said, fighting to keep the anger from his voice, "but perhaps you could have a think, and let me know when it would be convenient for me to see Ben…. Well I didn't mean today, and I'm not starting anything…. Look, I can't talk about this right now, I'm on the train to Tavistock…." He sighed enormously. "Right, fine, that's fine…. OK, I will. Bye then."

He disconnected and looked up to Sherlock. "She thinks it would be a good idea if we spend some time apart."

"For how long?"

"She didn't say. She's quite shocked that I'm going to Tavistock without telling her in advance, yet has decided to take my son away to her sister in Kent for a while. I can stay in the flat until she's back, apparently." He rubbed his forehead.

"You can stay at Baker Street for as long as you need."

"Thank you." He used a fairly big portion of his remaining energy to get something approximating a smile on his face. "Did you put the sandwiches in your bag?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

John demolished both sandwiches, and then retreated into silence, only emerging briefly to call Mike to request cover for his afternoon shift, citing a 'family emergency' for the reason. Sherlock watched him for a while, and then retreated into his newspapers. He read them cover to cover, paying particular attention to any stories, no matter how sensational, about the disappearance of Silver Blaze. He considered offering some of them across to John when he'd finished with them, but John was staring resolutely out of the window with his chin cupped in his hand. Eventually Sherlock gathered the papers into an untidy pile and stuffed them all into the luggage rack above his head. He looked out of the window too, and tried to stop feeling excited every time the sea came into view. His mind wound its way inland from the sea, across Dartmoor, along lanes, into stables and through the legs of horses.

"Of course, it's all academic really," John said.

"What is?" Sherlock wondered whether the conversation had been going on for a while without him noticing.

John glanced up. "Oh, sorry. I was just thinking; it's a bit silly wondering how long this temporary separation will last."

"Oh. You were still thinking about your marriage thing."

John glared at him, and Sherlock wondered if he'd possibly missed the mark with that comment.

"Yes, I was still dwelling a bit on the state of my marriage."

Sherlock thought it would be better if he didn't say anything at all at this point. He put his listening face on.

"The thing is," John continued, "it doesn't really matter how long this separation lasts for, or what decisions either of us make in the next couple of days. At some point, I'm going to have to tell her about the gambling and the sudden new debts, and at that point she'll decide that she doesn't want me back ever anyway."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, because if your marriage is already on fairly rocky ground, it's very unlikely that you'll be able to stretch so far as to forgive your husband for hanging around with unsavoury characters in dirty betting shops and driving you into a shedload of extra debt while he's doing it."

"No, I didn't mean why would she leave you; that's an obvious and sensible reaction." John's face fell again. "I mean, why would you tell her in the first place?"

"Because I have several massive debts. She's bound to notice at some point. Especially now I'm not there, where I can get to the post first. Also, I can't afford them, so debt collectors will soon start calling."

"So I'll lend you the money to pay off the debts, then nobody will call, and you can forget that this ever happened."

"No, I can't."

"Well, perhaps not forget completely, but certainly there'd be no reason to tell your wife."

John frowned and looked out of the window again.

"You see, this is why I didn't want to talk about your marriage," Sherlock said. "I've clearly said something insensitive or inappropriate, and I don't know what. It's a logical solution to the problem."

John smiled. "No, it's not. Though I do appreciate you're trying to help by throwing logic at the problem, but the problem isn't the debt. The debt is _a_ problem yes, but it's mine and I'll pay it all back somehow, and without removing any assets from the marriage, though God knows how. But that's not the only problem. There's the further problem that I got so angry with Mary, and rather than talk to her, I got self-indulgent and stupid and behaved inappropriately. There's the problem that I lied to her about it. Even if she never knows I've lied, it's hardly a good basis for a marriage is it? There's the problem that I'm not behaving in the way I should, or in the way I wanted to, when I married her. Every time I talk to her I get cross."

"She's not behaving very well either."

John shrugged. "Thanks. Though would you still be saying that if you were her friend and not mine?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why would I ever be Mary's friend? I've honestly never understood what you see in her."

John gave him a grim smile. "Thanks."

"I don't_ think_ I meant to insult you then."

"No, I know. Sometimes I don't know what she sees in me either. She's right. Sometimes I am stupidly old fashioned, and irritable, and grumpy."

"Well yes, you are all those things, but I still like you."

"I'm not married to you, though. Oh, I don't know. Mary rushed from a bad marriage into my arms. I think I excited her once, when I was, you know, solving crime and being a bit heroic."

"When was that?"

"Funny man. The thing is, after we were married I wasn't that person anymore. So is it any wonder she fell out of love with me? I thought she'd always be happy; shooting out babies and being in love with me. It didn't occur to me that that might actually be quite complicated, and it not be enough."

"Do you love her?"

John startled.

"Sorry," Sherlock said. "Is that a personal question?"

"It is a bit."

"Oh. It's just I don't know. I know you distinguish between the emotion of love and the chemical reaction of lust, and I haven't seen you lust after her for months..."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock shrugged this off. "If love and lust are not one and the same thing, then I wouldn't know how to identify love at all. You don't have to answer if it's personal though."

John slowly shook his head while he thought about this. "Right now, I don't know. I'm angry with her. But I'm even angrier with me, and that makes it all a bit confusing. At the moment, I think that no, I don't love her. She's cold, she's unfeeling, and she just pushes me away, and sometimes she's even cruel. Not often. Only once in fact, but I never, ever thought she could ever be cruel, and there it is. And so I think, I don't love her; why would I? But other times I think of her… I think of her reading her book or brushing her hair, and relaxed and smiling at me, and I miss her so badly and want her so much, and I think that I do love her and I always will. But then, other times, the really frightening times, I start wondering if I ever loved her at all, or if I was just blinded by this image of her that I'd made up and that she never was."

Sherlock stared. "Just how many layers of emotion do you have?"

John laughed. "Too many. Far too many. Maybe I should give emotion up for a while. Be more like you."

"Yes! I've been saying this for years! It's always been your one failing."

"I'm a gambling addict, Sherlock."

"OK, the worst one of your two failings." His gaze drifted out to of the window again.

"Now you're thinking of a list of my perceived failings, and putting them on a comparative scale, aren't you?" John said.

"No!" He had the grace to blush slightly though. "Just out of interest, was it better when I was throwing money or logic at the problem?"

John laughed again. "Money, I think. Maybe that's an answer for you. Don't talk; just give people money."

Sherlock smiled, but only momentarily. "Wait, an answer for what, precisely?"

"One of your failings, that's all. Actually the attempt at logic was good. Explaining stuff to you helps clarify things for me."

"Really?"

"Yes. Why?"

"No reason. It's just I find the same thing in reverse."

"Huh. Here's Plymouth." John pulled himself up. "God, my legs are stiff."

"How? Your legs are short enough to go under the table. Or is it just because you're old now, do you think?"

John gave him a wide grin. "Watch your step while you're getting off the train now, won't you."

Sherlock grinned back, and they made their way off the train and through the station.

"Where first?" John asked. "Go through the joy of renting a car again?"

"It would have been far less painful if you'd have just stopped arguing with me. Anyway, no, the bodies have been brought into Plymouth for the autopsies. Tavistock is apparently quite short of coroners. Our contact in the police is here too; Detective Chief Inspector Gregson. He seems a touch disparaging about the capabilities of the Tavistock police. I think he and I might get on."

"Well let's not rush the relationship. After all, the only thing we know you have in common is that neither of you much like other people."

Sherlock grinned and made his way to the taxi rank at the station. They were in it a very brief time before they stopped again.

"No, I need the main police station," Sherlock told the driver. "The central one."

"This is the central one."

John and Sherlock looked again, and took in its two floors in a nasty, 80s built, concrete office block.

"This is the central police station for the city of Plymouth and the surrounding area?" Sherlock clarified.

"That's the one."

"Just pay the man and let's go," John said.

The inside of the station was equally as uninspiring. There was a bored looking desk-sergeant at the reception desk, listening to two old men arguing.

"I don't care what he says!" one yelled. "He stole my tomato plants!"

"I didn't steal nothing at all!" the other countered. "Why would I want his tomato plants? Bland tasteless little pebbles that they fruited."

"My tomatoes are a darn sight more tasty than your tomatoes!"

"Right, so, theft of tomato plants," the sergeant said, sounding bored and trying to make a start on his report paper.

"I didn't steal his tomatoes! He stole my trowel and threw it in a ditch!"

"I didn't steal it then, if I threw it in a ditch."

"Oh God…" Sherlock muttered.

"Is there any chance the plants were eaten by slugs?" John asked loudly.

The two men turned to look at him.

"Are you really suggesting Gerald doesn't know how to repel slugs?" the potential thief asked.

"Cheeky little upstart," Gerald added.

"This is the problem with the younger generation," the thief said, turning back to the desk sergeant. "Think they know everything, and they never bloody listen."

John glanced at Sherlock, who appeared to be returning to good humour.

"Let's find Gregson using the usual method," Sherlock whispered.

"What's that?"

"Listen for the sounds of shouting."

John turned back to Gerald and friend who were now railing against the local schools and the youth of today. He frowned, but his face cleared as his hearing honed in on another argument taking place further inside the building. Sherlock gestured off to his left, and John followed him through a set of double doors and into a mid-sized open-plan office. At the far side of it, there was a plain-clothed policeman being harangued by a well-spoken man in his early sixties or thereabout. The civilian was incandescent with rage.

"Don't think his being dead will get him out of anything! I intend to prosecute despite that if I find out that he's in any way injured my horse!"

"Ah, Mr Ross, I presume," Sherlock said.

"Colonel Ross," Ross barked back. "And who the hell are you?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"The madman?" Ross asked. He turned back to the policeman. "You hired the madman to look for Silver Blaze?"

"Detective Inspector Gregson invited me to offer an opinion on the deaths of John Straker and Nathan Clarke." He sniffed. "If I have time while I'm here, I'm happy to look into the matter of the horse."

"He's not just any horse…" the colonel started.

"But he is a horse. I'm looking for something about sixteen hands high with four legs and a tail and that generally looks like a horse, am I not? Like I say, I'll turn to it after I've finished with the murders."

Colonel Ross appeared to become too angry to speak. He turned on his heel and marched out of the office. Sherlock turned back to the policeman.

"Chief Inspector Gregson?"

"Yes, for my sins. Sometimes I think they must have been pretty big sins." He assumed a mournful expression, but it didn't sit well on his broad, open face. It vanished almost instantly, and a smile came out. The Inspector's eyes shrank and sparkled and he extended a meaty hand. "Mr Holmes, I'm so sorry I didn't meet you at the train station. Detective Inspector Lestrade was quite cryptic about whether you'd come at all, let alone when you might do so. I am grateful that you've taken the time so quickly."

Sherlock frowned. "I was about to apologise for being so tardy; there were some urgent matters in London which caused me to delay."

"Well no matter, no matter. You're here sooner than I'd hoped, and the crime scenes are all closed and undisturbed."

"Including the area on the moor where Straker was found?"

"Yes. It's under a tent for now. I wasn't too confident about the weather. The boy from the stable is eager to get the horses out and exercised though. He feels it would be better to get them back into routine, but I've begged him off for today at least. I'm glad you're here though; it would be nice to give those poor children some good news."

John frowned. "Children?"

Gregson laughed. "Well, not children I suppose. Everyone seems like a child to me these days. Will you come to the stables now?"

"I'd prefer to start with the morgue. I'm hoping to stay in Tavistock during the investigation, so let's get the morgue over with quickly."

"Fair enough. It is the sensible option." He seemed to properly notice John for the first time. "Oh, my apologies, sir! You must be the estimable Doctor Watson."

John grinned. "For _my_ sins." He shook his hand. "I'm just here to observe really."

"I'm very happy to have both of you here," Gregson said. "Now let's head along to the morgue. Do you want to leave your baggage in my office?"

They dropped their bags in a small, disorganised office, which looked as though it hadn't been used for actual office work in quite some time. The desk chair had been wedged by one wall, trapped by a stack of evidence boxes, and the desk itself was largely buried under stacks of paperwork and files. The only part that still looked vaguely usable was an office sofa, which had had its back cushions removed and a pillow added, and was clearly now used mostly as an occasional bed.

They followed Inspector Gregson back out onto the street.

"Do you mind walking?" he asked "We're only a street away from the morgue. We still have a separate building from the hospital, but goodness knows how long that will last. Cuts bloody everywhere; you know how it is."

"I work for the NHS," John said.

Gregson stopped to look at him. "Oh, you have my sympathies," he shuddered at the thought of it.

"I find my work is still plentiful and lucrative," Sherlock said.

Gregson and John looked at him, but didn't comment. They walked onwards again.

"I shouldn't complain about the poor sods too much," Gregson went on, "my team, I mean. Recruitment for the police isn't what it was, nor is the training. The Tavistock station has been unmanned for two years now. We open it, of course, for investigations like this, but it's not easy, mounting an investigation like this and you have to start by calling round to find out who's got the bloody keys. I probably shouldn't complain about them half as much as I do." He looked quietly remorseful, but as they rounded the corner his smile broke out again. "Oh, I do love our morgue. Isn't she beautiful?"

John and Sherlock looked. The morgue was a stately Victorian building, early enough to have been built slightly in the Gothic style, with tall, leaded windows, ornate guttering and cornerstones, and even several gargoyles.

"Wow," John said. "That really is something."

"Not exactly purpose built," Gregson said. "After all, the Victorians had a tendency to stick people in the ground as quick as humanly possible, but the building was granted to the force by Lord Bletchley. Our Colonel Ross's great, great grandfather. All about the science that man; one of the proper greats." He sighed. "It must have bred out a little. So anyway, not ideal, but one of the first designated morgue buildings in the country." He held a large oak door open for them and followed them in. "Ah, Lyn, has Doctor Philmore prepared the bodies for us?"

Lyn nodded and Gregson led them down into the basement. "Interesting man, Doctor Philmore," he said in a low voice. "He's currently developed his own little theory about this whole thing. I'd be pleased to see what you make of it."

He led them into the examination room. It was typically white and wipe-clean, and modern metal worktables and units had been added to the old fashioned room to make sure it stayed sterile. Doctor Philmore was surprisingly young and lean, a wiry energetic sort of man. He gave Inspector Gregson a brief smile, and turned slightly suspicious eyes on Sherlock and John, but he shook their hands when Gregson introduced them.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Mr Holmes," he said quietly. "I think your trip may be wasted though. If you have a look over here, I think you'll see what I mean. He gestured to the further examination table and drew back the blue blanket.

John Straker was a man of about fifty, grey haired and rugged looking, tanned face, and clear signs of an active, outdoor life. There were various old scars across his torso, and more recent marks of a shallow slash across the left hand side of his chest, and a further deep gash; the fatal wound where the knife had slipped between two ribs and into Straker's right lung. It was the obvious cause of death, and Sherlock glanced at it only for a second before taking in the other bruises on Straker's body; one on his shoulder, another on his hip. He nodded and stood up straight.

"I see," he said.

He gestured for John to look too, and John took in the knife mark and the bruising. He straightened up and frowned.

"Seriously?" he said. "You think the horse did it?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Doctor Philmore looked a little hesitant in the face of John's incredulity.

"Obviously I don't think the horse did anything deliberately, but the majority of the wounds are clearly kicks from a horse."

"I agree," Sherlock said. "So your current hypothesis is that Straker here killed Clarke, removed Silver Blaze, took him onto the moor, and was then kicked savagely by the horse, which then somehow developed opposable thumbs and stabbed Straker with his own knife. Tell me, did he leave any hoof prints on the knife?"

Philmore blushed and stuttered. "No, obviously, but there are only two sets of prints on the knife; Straker's here, and the daughter's, which isn't particularly surprising as it came from their kitchen and she used it when she was cooking. None of the prints are clear, though there are some traces of the food on it."

"Well it must be like you say, John," Sherlock went on, with a gleam in his eye, "if you take a knife into a fight, there's no telling who'll end up using it."

"But a horse?" John said.

"He has clearly been wounded by a horse," Philmore protested. "He was clearly with Silver Blaze just prior to his death!"

"No," Sherlock said, "he was clearly with _a_ horse just prior to his death. I know horse's shoes are sized to the animal, but they're not entirely unique, are they? Still, it's quite a nice little theory, and Silver Blaze is the most likely candidate at this point. Well done." He turned to Gregson. "I like him. He's at least blessed with a little imagination."

"But come on…" John started.

"Tell me about the knife wound," Sherlock said to Doctor Philmore.

Doctor Philmore was slightly baffled by this reaction, but he ploughed on. "The wound was from a standard carving knife, eight inch blade."

"Sabatier style?"

"Yes. It penetrated four inches and into the left lung at an angle just short of horizontal; the knife was pushed upwards into his lung. It could be consistent with a horse kicking it home." He blushed slightly, but Sherlock didn't comment. "Death wasn't instant, he lived approximately twenty minutes more."

"He died of hypoxia?" John asked, nodding at Straker's face.

"Yes."

"He didn't bleed out," John explained to Sherlock. "The lung filled with fluid and he drowned."

"Didn't he have another lung?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, no, I probably should have said; Straker was a jockey once. He took a tumble at the National, what, ten or twelve years ago. Didn't look like he was going to make it for a while; he had a rib break and go through his left lung. They needed to remove the whole lower lobe in the end; there were complications due to his smoking and his lung being full of tar, which I mention in passing and not for any specific reason at all." John looked pointedly at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. "He survived, but he had to give up riding. I mean, I'm sure he still rode occasionally for pleasure, but nothing professional and nothing at speed. When he was back on his feet, he became a professional trainer."

"How long had he been with Ross?"

John shrugged. "Since about the time of the accident I think. They've had a long relationship from what I remember."

"Straker was riding one of Ross's horses when he fell," Gregson put in. "I don't think Ross felt entirely responsible, but he has a strong sense of what ought to be done, so he paid for Straker's rehabilitation. They became friends at about that time, and eventually Ross bought out Kings Pyland and established Straker there as trainer."

"But the relationship had soured recently?" Sherlock asked. "Ross was just threatening to prosecute the dead man."

"If there was a big row, it hasn't reached me in any form of gossip," Gregson said. He glanced at Doctor Philmore who shook his head.

Sherlock glanced at John.

"Not that I've heard about either."

"Right, thank you." Sherlock looked at the rest of Straker's body closely. He took out his magnifying glass and looked closer still. "He's been scratched here," Sherlock said. He held his glass out to John who looked too.

"A cat or something?" Doctor Philmore asked.

"Or a hand," John answered. "Too big for a cat." He handed the glass to Doctor Philmore who looked too.

"I suppose it's suggestive of the fact that there may have been another person who fought with him before he died." He looked slightly crestfallen.

"We don't know when though," Sherlock said. "This could have happened at any time on the day of his death."

He held his hand out for the glass and took it to Clarke's body. He pulled back the blanket himself and looked first to the fingernails on both hands.

"It wasn't Clarke," Sherlock said. "His nails are too short and too dirty; there was no dirt on the scrapes on Straker. So it doesn't look as though Clarke disturbed Straker while he was removing the horse and put up a fight."

"So you do think Straker took the horse?" Doctor Philmore asked. He finished tidying Straker away and came to join them.

"It's the most likely scenario at this point, but I'm not in possession of all the facts yet. I'll certainly keep it in mind, and I'll be able to eliminate other horses from the stable reasonably quickly. You'll send me the dimensions of the bruises?"

Philmore nodded eagerly.

"There's not much else here," Sherlock said, looking at Clarke's body.

"No. He was poisoned and asphyxiated on his vomit. There are no needle marks and his nose is clean so the poison appears to have been taken orally. I'm waiting for the toxicology report; I've tried to speed it along, but, well, there's only so much speed I can generate. I'll let you know the results."

"Thank you." Sherlock turned and walked out of the door.

Gregson and John followed him back into the stairwell.

"He's young, but he's eager," Gregson said.

"I like him," Sherlock said. "You'd do well to keep an eye on him, Chief Inspector. I like them with imagination. You don't want to surround yourself with people who take the easiest scenario every time. I think he's wrong about the knife in this instance; the idea that Straker was holding it to himself at precisely the right angle, and at the moment that the horse kicked is a little far-fetched. Still, the man saw a list of facts, followed them, and he wasn't afraid to voice his destination. That's not a bad skill to have."

"Perhaps."

They emerged into the fresh air and started to walk back to the police station.

"Where next?" Gregson asked. "Shall I drive you to the stables?"

"I'd like to see where Straker was found first," Sherlock replied. "Time's getting on, and at every point we run the risk of any evidence being lost. I'm sure the horses can wait another hour. Not in your car though; we'll need something for while we're there, so we'll follow you in a…"

"Oh, please no!" John said. "Everything's two miles from Tavistock. We can walk that far without doing ourselves a mischief!"

"No, everything's in a two mile radius from King's Pyland. Mapleton is two miles beyond that."

"So it's four miles! Two grown men can walk four miles, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Have it your own way then."

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Your arguments are all valid. We'll have a lift now, and walk while we're there. How we'll get back to Plymouth afterwards I don't know."

"Oh, someone will give you a lift," Gregson said. "Only one of my force actually lives in Tavistock. The others will be coming and going all the time."

"Well that's settled then," Sherlock said.

John stared.

"What's wrong with you now?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. It's just weird being in this parallel universe where you agree with me."

"It won't last."

"OK then."

They went into the police station and Chief Inspector Gregson was immediately surrounded and followed by people giving him messages, telling him snippets of information about other cases and handing him paperwork. One woman intercepted him at the office door while he was looking for his key.

"I have last month's stats that still need signing off, and the payments list, and the address and number for Doberman Security."

"Have you called Doberman yet?"

"No, you asked me to wait for you."

"So I did. Give that one here and put the rest on my desk." He opened the office door for her and revealed his desk. The woman gave him a pointed look, and added the papers to the piles with a slight sigh. She handed him the other note and left them alone.

He turned to Sherlock with a pained smile. "Sometimes it feels just like having children. Do you have children, Mr Holmes?"

"God, no."

"I have a son," John put in. He seemed to physically swell as he said it.

"Ah, then you'll know," Gregson said.

"Well, he's only three months old," John said, "so the demands are fairly straight forward so far."

"Give it time." Gregson shook his head. "Actually, perhaps not. I'm sure you're boy will be utterly delightful, and not grow up with a constant list of demands."

"I'm sure," Sherlock muttered. "Bags, John."

John rolled his eyes, but picked up both bags and followed them back out to the car. Sherlock took the front seat and almost instantly regretted it as Gregson continued to chat cheerfully to him, and he couldn't see John. He heard the sound of John getting a text, and then felt an amount of impatient shuffling behind him. He tried to block out both distractions and to concentrate on the case, but by the time they reached Tavistock, he was tired, frustrated, and beginning to feel the start of a headache. He was relieved when Gregson pulled into the small car-park of the police station.

"Our hotel is just across the road," Sherlock said. "We'll go and check in now, and meet you back here."

"Fair enough," Gregson said cheerfully. "I'll go and see if these clots have seen or heard anything more."

They separated, and John trailed behind Sherlock as they crossed the road. Sherlock checked them in to their twin room, and was mildly concerned when John didn't argue about this or make any complaint at all. They dropped their bags onto their beds, and John turned to walk straight out of the door again, and almost bumped into Sherlock who wasn't yet moving.

"Do you need to take a break?" Sherlock asked.

"What? No, I'm fine."

"You didn't sleep well last night."

"I'm _fine_."

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably. "Do you need to make a phone call?"

John looked guiltily at his phone. "No, not yet. I know you want to get to the crime scene, and it can wait until after that."

Sherlock nodded and marched out of the room, with John on his heels.

Tavistock police station was small, cold, and had that musty smell of old town halls and buildings that aren't regularly used and filled with life. There were only two rooms behind at either side of the reception desk, and one had a handwritten sign saying 'Incident Room'. They went in to find Chief Inspector Gregson chatting with a bored looking policeman and an angry looking police woman.

"I appreciate that…" the policewoman said. She broke off when Sherlock and John came in, and she looked at them with steely eyes. "When I said we needed more help down here, I didn't mean _him._ Unless he's capable of answering phones and making tea."

"John makes the tea," Sherlock said.

"I'm taking Mr Holmes down to the spot where Straker was found," Gregson said. "I promise I'll do what I can to get someone else up here to help with these reports, but it is an important piece of police work, Stafford. You know that, and I appreciate what you're doing here. Now, has anything of interest come in?"

"Only a hundred more saying Blaze _must_ be at Mapelton. And another two hundred that there must be travellers on the moor who've got him."

"Mapelton's clean," the bored policeman said. "We know it is."

"Well I think it's interesting," the policewoman muttered.

"Thank you, sergeant; I'll take a look at the rest later. Let's go, gentlemen."

He swept out before Stafford could utter another complaint. As they went through the reception area, there was someone else there, telling the desk officer that they had definitely heard horse hooves outside her bedroom window. They went past without waiting to hear more.

"The thing that you can't underestimate, is how much the people around here love horses," Gregson said as they set off along a lane. "Every last one of them loves horses in general, and most of them are very proud of Silver Blaze specifically. It's marvellous to have a home-grown hero like that. They all want to help, and don't seem to understand that just thinking you might have heard something neighing as you passed a field isn't quite as helpful as they might think. Especially when you find out that said field belongs to a livery stable."

"That's a point," John said. "I'm assuming all the surrounding stables and livery yards have been checked."

"They have," Gregson confirmed. "Mapleton's been checked twice."

"Why?"

"Oh, we've had floods of reports saying that he simply must be there. We went back just in case we'd missed something the first time, but there really was nothing. Well, there was a stable full of horses, but no Silver Blaze."

"How can you be sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, we went in and looked. Every horse was accounted for, and had a full set of notes with a picture and details of markings and scars."

"But did you take DNA samples from the horses?"

Chief Inspector Gregson boggled slightly, and John grinned.

"Wait a second, Sherlock, can I just check something? You do know that all horses look different don't you? That whole, 'sixteen hands, four legs, a head and a tail' thing; that was just to antagonise Colonel Ross, wasn't it? You don't actually think that."

Sherlock sniffed. "Well obviously there are some differences with things such as height, colour and sex, but basically…" He broke off in the face of the incredulity of the others. "Basically, a horse is a horse."

"No, Sherlock," John said.

"Obviously some are different breeds or something, but…"

"No, Sherlock." He shook his head a little for emphasis.

"Have you seen a picture?" Gregson asked, sounding a little nervous.

"Yes, I've seen a picture. Silver Blaze has a distinctive white mark down his nose, but I'm relatively sure I've seen several other horses similarly marked."

"So how did you propose to find him?" John asked.

"I'd eliminate horses of the wrong height, colour, sex, and any who don't have the right white mark, and the rest would need to be DNA tested. Why? How did you propose to find him?"

"I'd look for the horse that looks like Silver Blaze," John answered. "I mean, there might need to be DNA verification, but I doubt I'd need to test every one that looked vaguely similar."

Sherlock looked distinctly peeved.

"We're getting off the point. Let's go and see where Straker was found, shall we." He turned and marched away.

"It's a little quicker if we take the right hand path," Gregson called after him.

Without missing a pace, Sherlock veered from the path and walked across the open moor until he reached the right hand path. Gregson and John exchanged a glance and walked after him.

John caught up first. "Look on the bright side," he said. "You didn't trip over a rabbit hole this time."

Sherlock gave him a look, and continued scanning the moorland for the right spot. It wasn't long before the police tent loomed into view in a little hollow with a sudden increase of gorse bushes. Sherlock frowned and scanned the landscape.

"In which direction is King's Pyland?"

"Over there," Gregson said, waving an arm. "You can just see it; that rooftop there is part of the building."

Sherlock frowned. "He was still within sight of the stable." He pushed on to the tent.

"You'll understand that we've had to move most of the evidence already. I've brought the pictures of where everything was though. I wanted to wait but…"

"No, it was better that it was logged and recorded immediately. Leaving it there could have caused confusion. The tracks will still be reasonably fresh."

"Yes, that's why I left the tent up. There hasn't been any rain, but a tent and an officer keeps more people out than just tape."

"Let's take a look then." Sherlock ducked under the wider circle of police tape, his eyes darting around for anything interesting. The officer standing guard there watched him disdainfully. There were small stakes with numbers on them marking where the police had found footprints of both horse and man. "He came from the stables then, and with a horse," Sherlock said quietly.

"That's certainly what we thought," the young policeman said.

"Why haven't you marked all the footprints?"

"We have!"

"No, you haven't. Look here," he squatted down by one print mark, and John squatted opposite. "There are two footprints here." Over the top of the larger one, there was a second print, making the former look strangely out of focus.

"He probably just stumbled," the policeman said. The prints here are quiet mashed up; the ground was slippery."

"No, it's a smaller foot," John said. "Same make of boots though."

"Are there any other smaller ones?" Sherlock asked.

"We didn't find any," the policeman muttered.

"You weren't looking."

Before Sherlock went into the tent, he spent a while with John and Gregson checking the rest of the prints. They found two others which were a smaller sized boot.

"Well this is shoddy work, I must say," Gregson muttered. "I'm awfully sorry, Mr Holmes. I've spent most of my time at the stables and the house, or back in Plymouth. I really should have picked this up sooner."

"Maybe the second man came here at an earlier time?" The policeman suggested.

"No, the tracks are over the top of Straker's in the one place that they crossed. She came here after him."

"She?" Gregson asked.

"Yes. Fairly large shoe size for a female, but smaller than a man's and lighter too."

"So a woman or a small, light man," John said.

"If you like. Statistically though…"

"Statistically, we're stuck between a couple of businesses with more than the average amount of small, light men."

Sherlock looked abashed, but nodded. "Thank you. How far do these tracks extend?" he called to Gregson.

"Not as far as the stables," Gregson replied. "We've had people looking between here and there, but given the balls up with the second tracks, I'm not sure if I'd entirely trust my team anymore."

"I'm sure we'd be able to spot the difference between tracks and no tracks," the policeman snapped.

"Is the edge of the moor not popular with hikers and dog walkers?" Sherlock asked. "Were there really no tracks at all?"

"But we had the size and shape of Straker's footprints to compare."

"What did you use for your comparison? His boots, or the footprints here?"

"The prints…" The words died on his lips as he realised his error.

Sherlock looked up at him, and wondered why Gregson hadn't brought him in line yet. He straightened up and went underneath the tent canopy and looked around. John followed him fairly quickly. The ground was soft here and fairly churned up. It was quite hard to identify precisely what had happened from the jumble of skids and depressions and areas where the turf and mud had been kicked up entirely. There were more police stakes marking where Straker's body and torch had been found. Gregson handed him pictures so that he could see them in situ.

Sherlock flicked through the pictures, handing them to John as he did so. He stopped at one.

"What's this?" He looked at a corresponding gorse bush with a police tag on it.

"That's where his jacket was found."

Sherlock charged across to the bush and compared with the picture again. He handed the photo to John. "It's been placed there," Sherlock said. "So John Straker removed his own jacket and put it on the gorse bush."

"Couldn't the other person have removed it?" John asked.

"Not without a struggle if he was still alive, and not without dragging it through the mud if he wasn't. It's pristine though."

"So that means…"

"That means that John Straker had arrived at the place he wanted to be. He was bringing the horse to this spot."

John's eyes widened, but then his face screwed into a frown as his phone rang. He fumbled to get it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "Sorry…" he said, and he disappeared outside.

"Well that's not very professional," the policeman said.

Sherlock rounded on him. "Neither is wandering away from your post to smoke cigarettes."

"You didn't!" Gregson said.

The policeman blushed and gave himself away.

Sherlock left Gregson to discipline his man, and wandered out to look for John. He was a short distance away, just finishing a terse conversation.

"Well, I've said I'm sorry, I've explained that I'm working, and when I have more time to talk, I will call you… Well if you want to interpret it that way, then that's fine… OK then, talk to you later."

He disconnected and turned to go back to the tent, but Sherlock intercepted him.

"John, if you need time to talk to her, I'll go onto the stables alone. I can fill you in later; it's fine."

"No. I'm not going to jump to her timetable anymore. Though ironically, she's under the impression she's been jumping to mine, and that I think this is more worthy of my time than…. Anyhow, she just wanted to tell me she's changed her mind and has taken Ben back to the flat, so if I can stay away for a few more days, that would be… what?" Sherlock's face had fallen slightly. "Do you need me out the house after all?"

"No, no it's nothing like that."

"What is it then?"

"Nothing."

John stared until he had to answer.

"She's gone back to the flat." Sherlock said. "Somebody has advised her not to vacate the family home. She's thinking longer term."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

John walked backwards a few steps, staring at his phone.

"She wants a divorce?" he murmured.

"No, we don't know that yet…"

"But she's taken legal advice?"

"We don't know that either. But at some point she's been told or has remembered that she'll be in a better position if she doesn't vacate the property."

John turned and walked away a few steps until he could control his face. He panicked and walked back to Sherlock.

"Look, about what you said before, about the money. Could you lend it to me after all? Could I just sort that out and…what?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, but I think you're right."

"What?"

"I think it's the wrong thing to do. I don't think it will fix the problems."

John backed away from him feeling hurt and confused.

"No, listen to me," Sherlock glanced at the tent where Chief Inspector Gregson was standing, looking at the two of them. He pulled John slightly further away. "Listen, John, you've seen me…you've seen me _fail_ twice in the time that you've known me. Both times, you kept me basically alive, but that was it. There was no comfort, there was no fuss."

"What!" John pulled his arm away. "So you're saying that because you think I haven't done enough for you, you won't do this for me? Seriously?"

He charged away blindly, and Sherlock followed and grabbed his arm to hold him still.

"No, that's not what I'm saying; that's not it at all! Listen and try to concentrate just for a second. You don't let me die, but you refuse to prop me up. We both know how this thing works, we know all the lines, we know the roles people play, and of all the people I've ever known, you're the only one who's ever understood what you need to do. Mycroft tries to control things, then, when he fails, he turns a blind eye and makes my problems disappear. Mrs Hudson fusses and cares and coddles. Hell, even Lestrade will magic away charge sheets and excuse bad behaviour. And I get cross with them and I react to them, and I _don't_ stop. But you…you haven't so much as given me a painkiller for the headache afterwards. You've never ignored it, but you've never tried to take control. You've made it absolutely clear that it's my mess, my problem, and I have to get up and sort it out by myself. _That's_ how you stop the turning of the wheel, and I can't tell you how grateful I am for it. Twice, John. Twice. And we both know that if you had picked me up and cleaned me and taken care of it all for me, then it would have been twenty, thirty, two hundred times."

John looked at him, barely blinking, barely breathing, and trying to take this in.

"But Sherlock," he said, "it's my marriage…"

"I know. I'm sorry."

John paced away and paced back again. "But what if it's not the same?" he asked desperately. "You're talking about this as if it's an addiction, as if it's the same as you, but what if it's not? What if it's just that I'm having a bad couple of weeks?"

"You said it started when Ben was just born. It's been three months."

John felt the anger flare inside him. "Oh, you're timing me now?"

"How many times have you decided that you won't go back to the shop in that time? How many times have you deleted the websites from your bookmarks?"

John stopped, defeated. He felt light-headed and sat down heavily on the floor. Sherlock hesitated, but then he squatted down next to him. John was grateful for his presence, even if he was just watching with a concerned expression on his face.

"This is really happening, isn't it?" John asked. "The reality of my life is that I've managed to stay married for just a little over three years, and I'm addicted to gambling." His hand went over his mouth and he struggled to breathe. "What am I going to do?" he muttered.

"What do you want to do now?" Sherlock asked. "Do you want to go back home? Do you want to go and talk to her? I'll give you the cab fare back down to Plymouth."

John found he couldn't make sense of any of these choices. He looked a long way away.

"If you want to go back to the hotel and wait there for a while, I can walk you there," Sherlock said.

John shook his head. "I can't…I just…" He stopped talking for a few seconds and tried desperately to keep the tears at bay. "Sherlock, he's my_ son_. I don't want to be a parent for just two days a fortnight. I don't want to lose my son." His hands were gently shaking, and he clenched them into fists.

Sherlock glanced again at Gregson, and John imagined him watching and frowning but he couldn't find the energy to care.

"How much money do you need?" Sherlock asked eventually.

John startled so much he thought he was going to fall over completely. "What?"

"Obviously, you'll pay me back…"

"Of course I will! Of course." John was suddenly excited, desperate to cling onto this small cord of hope, and reaching out for Sherlock's sleeves. "Are you sure?"

"No. But I'll lend you the money anyway. How much money are we talking about?"

John didn't even blush. "I'm not sure exactly, it's all in small bits here and there. I think it's about five or six thousand pounds."

Sherlock didn't flinch or comment or calculate the speed in which the money had been spent. "OK, well, check and calculate it properly, and let me know where to transfer the money."

"OK, I will. Thank you, Sherlock." Relief flooded over him and made him slightly dizzy. "Thank you so much, you don't know…"

"Don't talk about it now." Sherlock stood up again. "Do you think you can walk back to the hotel by yourself?"

"Yeah, of course. Where are you going now?"

"King's Pyland."

"Can I come?"

"If you want." John felt Sherlock had just closed him down, and, for a second, John felt guilty and afraid. Then Sherlock put his hand out and helped John get up, and he wondered if he'd imagined the coldness. They walked back to where Gregson was still waiting and ignored the questions behind his eyes. "We're nearly finished now. I'd just like to spend a few minutes looking at the horse prints here."

They separated and walked in a wide circle around the tent. There were several areas of tracks and trails. Eventually Sherlock called them all back. "It's too confused, there are too many to follow. There's nothing more to see here; can you take me to the stables?"

Gregson nodded and struck out in the direction of the stables.

Sherlock and John followed, walking side by side. Sherlock took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, bit open the plastic wrapping, and took one out. John watched him but didn't say anything.

"Yes, I've started again," Sherlock said.

"When?"

"I bought these from Paddington while you were deciding the precise nature of the cup of coffee you wanted. And to be honest, between the pair of us, I think this is the least problematic of all of our addictions."

"Fair enough," John replied, and then he lapsed into silence, plodding along, still feeling dazed, and occasionally accidentally inhaling half a cloud of smoke.

King's Pyland Stables was a strange mix of the truly ancient and the stupidly modern. The gate was tall and made of iron, clearly made a century before, when the blacksmith's art went some distance beyond horse-shoes and bespoke fireplaces. The flashy, modern intercom looked ridiculous and flimsy perched on it, not least for the transferred logo of Doberman Security which had been placed ever so slightly askew on the plastic box. It was clearly bursting with technology though, and when Gregson buzzed on it the voice on the other end was crisp and clear. They were approved and strong, magnetic locks sprung back. Gregson pushed the heavy gate open, and Sherlock and John followed him in.

The tarmac underfoot was dark and seemed new, but several of the buildings were old and the brickworks were crumbling. There were two visible security cameras, one pointing at the entrance gate, and the other at the doors of the main stable block which lay just beyond a small office at the front of the grounds.

A man appeared from this office and walked towards them, smiling grimly.

"Chief Inspector Gregson, I'm glad to see you again."

"Thank you, these are two colleagues; Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They're the chaps I told you about before. Sherlock, John, this is Adam Cale. He was the senior hand here after Straker, and he's managing the place for a while."

Adam Cale was older than John had expected, at somewhere in his late twenties. He wasn't tall, but wasn't small enough to be a professional jockey. He was of slight build and had sandy coloured hair, and he seemed nervous and tired.

"I'm pleased you've come," he said, shaking their hands.

A girl came out of the office too, and stood leaning in the doorway of the office. Her dark hair was tied loosely behind her, and her eyes were dark and reddened. John saw Sherlock glance at her briefly, but he didn't ask for her name.

"Mr Cale, can you tell me about the security here?" Sherlock asked.

"Er, yes. Well, sort of. Obviously I didn't know as much as…. Well, John…Mr Straker I mean, he had it all put in."

"Recently?"

"No, not very recently. It must be about two years, or more than that. I'm sorry, I'm sure I can dig around in the files and see if I can find out."

"No, there's no need." Sherlock walked up to the nearest camera. "I take it there was no film from Monday night."

"There was a power cut," the girl said.

"Thank you, Miss Finnegan, I assume."

She nodded. "Sarah Finnegan. The thief cut the power cable out on the lane. There's nothing beyond here, but the stables all got cut off. The electric company only came round to fix it again yesterday evening."

"But there were back up batteries in the cameras, surely?" Sherlock asked.

Adam's eyes widened. "God, yes. I'd forgotten, there should be! There aren't though. There's a break, we looked with the police and they just went off."

"So the batteries didn't work, for some reason," Sherlock clarified. "What else? What about that gate there? How does that work for staff."

"We all have a key-fob that we have to hold to it, and then we type in the code number. Mr Straker has it reset monthly. It can be hard to remember sometimes."

"I see. Edith's statement was that the keypad wasn't working and that the gate was locked open."

Alan frowned. "It started working at some point after though. I remember I needed my fob and type the number to get in after Edith came back to wake us up."

"Curious," Sherlock commented. "Can I see your fob?"

Adam nodded and darted into the office. The girl stayed in the doorway and looked sullenly at Sherlock. Adam returned and handed him a black key-fob of the type with a microchip inside.

"You need the fob and to type in a number," he said again.

"Are they personalised? Can you tell whose fob was used each time?"

"You can," Gregson said. "And there's a log that they have access to it here, fortunately, probably so that people can keep an eye on their staff's timekeeping. We've checked the records, and there's no records of anyone entering between Edith at six, and then Adam here at nearly one in the morning."

"Would there be a report of the gate failing for some reason?"

"Oh, yes!" Adam said. "I just remembered it when you said; if the system…if anything goes wrong with the system, the…er…there's something off site, that gets some sort of message from the set up here. It sends it every few minutes. If the outside thing doesn't receive its 'all clear' message, then it sends an alarm."

"To where?"

"To Mr Straker's phone, and a box that goes off in both houses."

"Good Lord," Gregson said. "So he was out here trying to catch the person breaking in! That would explain the knife."

"But it would explain very little else," Sherlock said. "You would have heard the alarm too, Mr Cale. Could you have slept through it?"

"No. It's loud. I don't know why it didn't ring. It's supposed to every time, and we know it worked fine a few weeks ago because we had a man up here running tests on it."

"I see. May I see the room where Clarke was found?"

"Yes, of course," Cale answered. "Then can we take the horses out?"

"I'd like to see the horses in the stable if I may, but I'll be very brief."

Cale nodded and walked them along to a larger building. This part of the complex seemed more modern than the creaky office building and the various outhouses. Sherlock was taken into a little door on the short edge of the building. It led into a small tack room. The saddles and bridles were hanging neatly on large metal pegs on the wall. There was also a narrow bed in one corner, unmade, with a small bedside cabinet next to it, with a table lamp and a book on it.

"There was a phone there too, and a plate that had the remains of his evening meal." Inspector Gregson called from the doorway. "We've taken them to the station."

"Has anything else been moved?"

"Other than the body, no. The blankets would have been disturbed."

"Yes." Sherlock squatted next to the bed and examined it closely. "John, did you bring gloves?"

John emerged from his daydream. "What? Gloves? Sorry, no."

Sherlock rummaged through the pockets of his great-coat and retrieved a pair of tweezers. He used them to pull back the duvet. The bed was empty of anything suspicious.

"Mr Cale, would you know what Clarke ate on Monday evening?"

"Er, yes. We had… was it chilli on Monday?"

Sarah nodded. "Edith cooked."

"You all ate together. Is that usual practice?"

"Yes, we usually cook and eat together because our hours are so strange. Well, not all together, one of us eats here, but we take turns to cook, and we eat in John's kitchen. Someone walks a meal down here to whoever's on watch."

"And it was Edith's turn on Monday?"

Adam blushed. "Well, yes. She usually…she would offer when Nathan was on watch."

"Good. Right."

Sherlock turned his attention to the bedside table and picked up the paperback novel. He flicked through the pages and something was dislodged and fluttered down to the ground. It wafted under the bed and Sherlock got down on all fours to retrieve it with his tweezers.

"Inspector Gregson, you'll need an evidence bag." He held the thing aloft.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

John stepped forward to see. It was a tiny plastic zip-locked bag, of about the size you'd need for a postage stamp or single coin. Inside it was a piece of paper, about a centimetre square, with a small red heart on it. He frowned.

"It's acid?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Haven't had one of these so close since the nineties."

"Oh, hell," Gregson muttered. He found an evidence bag stuffed into his pocket and held it open for Sherlock to drop the tab into. "All we need right now is a sudden return to the rave scene."

Sherlock frowned at him. "Has there been a sudden return to the rave scene?"

"Well no but…"

"Then it's just as likely to be one person indulging on his own on boring watch nights. Not ideal for security, but hardly a sign of the end of days. I take it the horses are through here." He gestured to a door at the end of the bed. It was split into two sections, but both sections were shut and they were bolted together to make one door.

"We sometimes have it open," Adam said. "The top half anyway. Sarah sleeps with it all open but I like it at least half closed."

"Was it open on Monday night?"

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"It was closed," Sarah said. "I remember I had to open it to see the horses. The bolt was stiff and I..." she drifted into memory.

"Thank you," Sherlock said.

He opened the door and went through to the stables. John followed after him and was instantly caught in the scent of horses and straw. He breathed deeply and felt himself relax. There was a corridor leading from the tack-room door, and the looseboxes were on its right. On the left was the exterior door, with open windows aligned with each loose box, and a wide doorway, also open, half way along it. John walked past Sherlock who was examining the empty box with 'Silver Blaze' on a plaque above it, and he worked his way to the end, glancing at the horses as he went. He stopped at a dappled grey mare who seemed interested in him, and he scratched her nose for a while.

She blew at him and sniffed around his jacket.

"Oh, you're a clever one, aren't you," he murmured to her. "You're looking for sugar, I can tell. Well I have nothing for you." He tickled her ears and she stamped her foot appreciatively.

"John?" Sherlock muttered quietly at his ear.

"Mm?"

Sherlock turned away so the group waiting at the other end couldn't see him. "John, there are seven horses here."

John glanced up and down the boxes. "Yep. Seven horses. No flies on you."

"But they said there were only five including Silver Blaze."

"Oh, I see what you mean. When they said five, they mean five race horses in training. These two on the end are probably just pets."

"Pets?"

"Yes. They probably belong to the kids."

The grey mare decided there were no treats secreted on John, and she lifted her head and snorted in Sherlock's face. He leapt and took a giant step away from her.

John turned and tried not to smile too obviously. "You OK there?"

"Yes, fine." Sherlock came gingerly back. Not too close though. "They're a lot bigger than I anticipated."

"Really? You gave a good impression of someone who knew what sixteen hands high might look like up close."

"I know theoretically. It's just when that space is full of beast, it looks a little more…_more._"

"There's really nothing to worry about. Here, do you want to say hello?" He stroked down the grey's neck.

"No thank you."

"Mr Holmes," Adam said, nervously approaching, "if you've seen everything you need, may we take the horses out now?"

Sherlock turned and gave him a broad smile. "Yes, certainly thank you. If I could just examine your fingernails, I'll be finished."

"My fingernails?"

"Yes, please. You too, Miss Finnegan."

They extended their hands and Sherlock gave them a brief look.

"Thank you, that's fine." He left through central door, and John and Inspector Gregson followed him out into the sunshine.

"Where now?" Gregson asked. "I suppose I have to get this to the lab before we do much else."

"I'd like to speak to Edith Straker before too long. I also need to speak to someone at Doberman Security to see if we can get to the bottom of these camera failures."

"Oh, I've got the number somewhere; you might as well have it, here." He rummaged through more of his pockets until he found the scrap of paper with the details written on it. He handed it to Sherlock. "I'll take you to the house now."

Before they moved, Adam came out of the stable block leading one of the racers. The men turned to watch, and John noticed Sherlock take a surreptitious position behind him.

"They really are beautiful creatures, aren't they," John said.

"Are they?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yes," Gregson agreed. "I never learned to ride myself but I've always loved them. I find I still want to burst into childish applause whenever I see them up close like this. One of God's finest creations."

"No," Sherlock said. "You're wrong for a number of different reasons..."

"Oh, it's Jabberwocky," John said, cutting off Sherlock before he had started his list. Sarah was leading a tall bay horse into the yard, and she turned it and tied it loosely next to Adam's ride before disappearing inside again. "Oh my, fancy getting to meet Jabberwocky in the course of a day's work." He walked closer to the animal and stroked down his long neck and muscled shoulders. "Seriously, Sherlock, come and say hello."

"I don't say hello to horses," Sherlock muttered.

"I saw him run in Brighton the first time," John said. "Look at his beautiful legs."

"His legs are perfectly ordinary. For a horse."

Sarah came back into the yard carrying a saddle and bridle, and she gave John an angry look. He backed away.

"Come on," Sherlock said. "Let's go down to the house before John steals a horse too."

They walked along a narrow road with trees overhanging it on one side, and enclosed fields on the other. John looked around at the idyllic settings and wondered how reasonable it would be to move to Devon and live in a little cottage. Perhaps he could buy a little field close to the house, and he could teach Benjy to ride. They could all go out on treks together, him and Ben and Mary…

His heart clouded over again, and he pushed forward to catch up with Sherlock.

The two houses were standing alone, close to the end of the narrow lane, but before it widened to join the main road into Tavistock. They were a pair of typical, country, semi-detached cottages. Not particularly large, but picturesque, and standing in a sizable patch of garden. There were no fences between the two, and someone tended the front gardens as if they were all one.

"The Straker house is the one on the left," Gregson told them. "I believe the girl has someone staying with her, an aunt or a cousin or something. The mother's flying back from Australia, but she seems to be taking her time over it."

He walked across the lawn and knocked on the door, which was opened by a woman of about forty.

"Oh, it's you again," she said, coldly.

"Yes, and I'm sorry to encroach on your time again, but we'd like to talk to Miss Straker again if we may. These gentlemen here are aiding me with our enquiries."

"Edith is very tired. Could you keep the interview brief?"

"I only have a couple of questions for her at this time," Sherlock said. "I assure you I won't disturb her for longer than is necessary."

They were reluctantly allowed in, and were shown into a sitting room. It was mid-sized, and had an old, floral sofa and matching armchairs, which were faded and worn. A lapdog, some sort of terrier crossbreed, looked up enquiringly from where he was sitting on an old, crocheted blanket which was over the legs of Edith Straker. There was an old television in the corner, which the older lady turned off.

"Edith, these people have more questions for you. Do you think you're well enough to answer them?"

Edith eyes were red, and she looked pale and withdrawn. She seemed eager to focus and help though, and she sat up a bit, curling her legs beneath her. She was quite petite, and John had trouble believing that she was as old as twenty.

Sherlock and Gregson sat down on the two armchairs. John felt a little spare, so he just lingered by the window and looked out onto the garden.

"Miss Straker," Sherlock said, "I need you to think carefully about Monday evening. I know it's hard, but I need you to think back. Did your father take any phone calls at all?"

She frowned faintly as she thought back. "No. Nobody called for him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. We get up early, so most people know not to call after eight in the evening. I'd have noticed if someone did."

"Can you hear his mobile phone wherever you are?"

"Yes. He's a bit deaf so it's turned up loud. I always hear it."

"Thank you. Are you familiar of what the stable alarms sound like? Are they quite different from, say, the fire alarms?"

"Yes, it's got its own special ring and I've heard it loads of times. We had a couple of nights last year when kids were trying to get in." She smiled faintly. "He caught them in the end. He just waited out there until they tried to climb in, then he nabbed them."

"So you'd have remembered if there was an alarm on Monday?"

"Yes. I'd have heard, and Dad wouldn't have gone alone anyway. He'd have taken Adam."

"Who knew how to disable the alarm system?"

"You can't. I mean, you can't stop it from ringing, none of us can. We have keys and the number code to get in and out, but if you know someone's coming to visit, you have to be there waiting. We can't just say we won't have the alarm on this afternoon or anything."

"So there's no way you can stop the alarm ringing?"

"No. Oh, wait, I think maybe the security people can. We had some tarmac people in last year, so we had more people on watch, and the alarms off. But Dad had to send them a letter in advance though and they had to sort it out, and they weren't happy about it. He asked me to type the letter."

"Why you?"

She shrugged. "He asked me to type most of his letters. He's quite dyslexic and struggles to do it for himself. It only happened the once though, and Doberman said it was really irregular. There was a bit of an row about it."

"Thank you." Sherlock sat back on his chair, deep in thought.

The terrier decided it wasn't having quite its fair share of attention and he hopped off the sofa and went to sniff at John's leg, wagging its stumpy tail expectantly. John crouched down to make a fuss of it a little.

"Leave him alone, Skipper," Edith said tiredly. The other woman made a move to remove the dog.

"He's fine," John said. He thought of something and frowned. "Edith, if the alarm hadn't gone off, why do you think your dad left the house on Monday?"

She picked at her blanket. "I think he went looking for me."

"He knew you were going to see Nathan?"

Tears pooled in her eyes again, and she nodded.

"Had he just found out about you and him?"

"No. He'd known for a bit. At least, we didn't talk about it properly, but he made remarks and jokes, and I think that he either knew, or he suspected."

"So why would he suddenly follow you that night?" Sherlock asked, sitting forward again. "What changed that night that made him want to retrieve you?"

She shrugged and looked away.

"What time did he out? You mentioned he went to walk your dog." he asked.

She frowned. "No I didn't. I don't think I said that. He was in all night."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Yes," she replied firmly. "He was in all night. He went to bed after dinner, and I hadn't heard him go out again, so he must have come out after me."

"Were you down here or in your room?" Sherlock asked.

She hesitated. "I was down here. I'd have seen him leave." She swiped a couple of tears away. Inspector Gregson shifted in his seat looking cross and uncomfortable. Sherlock glanced at him, and then looked back to Edith.

"Miss Straker, could I please look at your fingernails?"

She held out her hands. They quivered gently as Sherlock took hold of them and leaned forwards to look closely at her nails. He looked only for a few seconds before he looked up at her face. She snatched her hands away to hide behind them and she sobbed hard.

"Oh that's enough!" The woman who had answered the door rushed over to Edith and hugged her. "Can't you lot just leave her alone? Hasn't she had too much to deal with already?"

Sherlock nodded and stood up. "Yes, of course. Thank you for your time."

He swept out of the room. John and Gregson exchanged glances and hurried after him. By the time they reached him, Sherlock was already out on the lane, pacing up and down. He pulled another cigarette out of the packet and stopped pacing to light it.

"Well this is all something," Inspector Gregson said. "All of our assumptions have been based on the fact that the dad left the house _before_ the daughter."

"He did," Sherlock snapped. He set off towards Tavistock.

Gregson hurried after him. "But she just said she knew he was home!"

"And no doubt that matches her statement given to your officers in the early hours of Tuesday morning?"

"The statement…?"

"Yes, the statement. I fail to believe that your police-force is so shoddy as to forget to take witness statements. Surely they would have had enough brain-cells between them to ascertain at what time the victim left his house? Surely you have enough wits to read the statement before deciding what must have happened!"

Gregson flushed. "I'm sure they did! I'm sure they asked, and that must be why we assumed…"

"You assume too much, Detective Inspector." He finished his cigarette and flicked the end to the side of the road.

"I'll check the witness statement. I'll find out. Do you think she's changed her statement?"

"She's certainly lying now. She wasn't in her living room before going to see Nathan Clarke; she was certainly in her bedroom, and she wouldn't be able to tell when her father left the house unless he made a lot of noise."

"Why was she covering for him?" John asked.

"I don't know. Because he's her father, probably, and people get all silly about that sort of thing. She's feeling guilty, probably because she fought with him physically at some point on Monday. She's cut her fingernails. They weren't worn or smoothed at all; just clipped quickly. At some point during her heavy mourning for the double loss of her father and her lover, she's taken the time to cut her fingernails. She caused the scratches on John Straker's arm and probably wanted to get rid of the feeling somehow."

"You think she killed him?" Gregson asked.

"You're leaping ahead again," Sherlock said. "I didn't say that; I merely suggested that they fought at some point on Monday."

"Where are we going next?" Gregson asked. He was half walking, half running to keep up with Sherlock's pace, and he was red and puffing as he went.

"You need to get back to Plymouth. I need that toxicology report on Nathan Clarke and to know what he'd taken prior to his death. I don't care how you speed it up; storm the lab and stand there until it's done for all I care. And at the same time see if you can excavate your office in search of Edith's original witness statement. I want to see how far her story has changed. Oh, and get the measurements of the hoof marks on Straker's body. You never know; they might come in useful."

"What are you going to do?"

"I need to find out why the dog didn't bark."

John frowned. "What? Skipper?"

Sherlock waved a slip of paper. John could just make out the words 'Doberman Security' scrawled on it.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

They walked the rest of the way back to Tavistock, Sherlock mostly thinking and smoking as he went. They went into the police station to check for messages.

"There's been another report that Silver Blaze is at Mapleton," Stafford said.

"But it was made by a drunk and angry ex-employee," the policeman said. "I'm not sure it should be taken seriously."

"It should all be taken seriously!" Stafford snapped.

"It's clean! Unless _he_ wants to go and look. See if we've missed anything." He gave Sherlock an angry glare.

"Well?" Gregson asked. "It's up to you. I wonder, given the mess at the scene just now and with Edith's statement..."

"What mess?" Stafford asked sharply.

"I don't need to see Mapleton," Sherlock replied. "Not yet at any rate. If Sergeant Stafford wants to go herself, I'm sure she'll do an excellent job of searching. Come on John. We have calls to make."

They crossed the road and stood in front of the hotel. Sherlock turned to John.

"You can have the room. I'll find some quiet corner to make my phone call."

"I can have the room for what?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Your phone call. You can't avoid it forever." He turned and walked away. "I'll be back later," he called as he went.

John sighed, but accepted his fate and went up to the room. Mary's phone diverted to voicemail.

"Hi, it's me," he said to the machine. "I just thought, well, it's the first moment I've been free all day, so I thought I'd call you. I'll be free for about an hour I would think." He glanced at his watch and realised it was getting on for six o'clock. "Anyhow, call me back when you've got a minute." He hung up and stared at the wall for a few minutes. When his phone failed to ring, he got up and went to buy a newspaper to pass the time.

It was half an hour later, and he was back in his room when Mary called him back.

"Hello," she said. "I'm sorry; I was bathing Ben. You rang at six."

John cursed himself. "Sorry. I forgot."

There was a fairly long pause. "Well?" Mary asked. "Was there something specific you wanted to talk about?"

"Well yes. Don't you think we should have a bit of a discussion about us? About what we do now?"

Mary sighed loudly down the phone. "So you're interested now?"

"Of course I'm interested. I've always been interested. I'm just not able to stop everything every time you want to have a little chat."

"I'm your wife, John!"

John closed his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm being unfair."

"Yes."

"OK, so we're talking now. What do you want to talk about?"

There was another sigh. "I really don't want to do this over the phone."

John gently panicked. "Do what?"

"I don't know. Any of it. I'd just prefer to be talking to you face to face."

"But when I'm there, we don't talk." John got up from the bed and walked over to the window and looked out over miles and miles of moorland. "When I'm there, you chase me out of the house."

"You're never here." Mary's voice rang with accusation. "Even when you are you just spend hours hiding behind your computer. What are you doing on it that I'm not allowed to see? Are you looking at porn?"

"No!"

"What then? What's so important that you have to spend hours glued to your screen, ignoring us?"

"I'm not ignoring you! You won't talk to me so I find some way of occupying my brain! Am I supposed to sit quietly in the corner, staring at the walls and waiting for the next command?"

"You make it really clear you don't want to be here. And then you try not to be. You come in late, you disappear for whole afternoons…"

"Of course I'm there," John returned. "I'm at work, or I'm there. I spend the time that I'm there cooking or cleaning or doing one of the other jobs that I'm deemed capable of doing."

"For God's sake!" Mary snapped. "Do you really and truly think I'm not doing enough around the house? I'm raising your child!"

"Oh, so you do recognise that he is my child then? I do have some vague connection to the boy, do I?"

"What are you talking about? Of course you're his father! Do you think I'm seeing someone else?"

"No!" John shouted. He sat down on the bed again and rubbed his face, trying to get a handle on this conversation. He calmed his voice. "No, I don't think you're having an affair. That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what the hell are you saying?"

"I'm saying…I'm saying that sometimes it feels a little bit as though you're chasing me away from Ben. You don't want me to get too close or to do too much for him. I'm relegated to cleaning the kitchen or painting the ruddy hallway. I want to do more with him, but every time I do anything that needs doing, you tell me I'm doing it wrong."

There was another pause. After a few seconds, John heard the sound of quiet sobbing and felt the subsequent smack of guilt.

"Mary?" he said. "Mary? I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." He hated himself for saying it, and the anger surged again.

"I would let you do stuff!" Mary sobbed. "You just have to ask!"

"But I ask all the time! I offer, and you tell me you can do it quicker. If I just do something off my own back, you tell me I shouldn't be doing it, or you stand watching over my shoulder. You told me I was sitting on the wrong side of the changing mat for heaven's sake. You make me feel useless!"

"I just don't want him to be uncomfortable!" she cried. "He's my baby, John!"

"He's mine too! I do actually care about his comfort too, you know."

He listened to her sobs subside.

"I know you care about him," she said, sounding steadier. "But let's be realistic, I'm the one who spends all the time with him. It's not your fault; it's just that I'm used to knowing what he needs so I can do it more easily."

"But that's what I'm saying! If you'd just let me try for a while, I could probably demonstrate to you that I'm perfectly capable of making sure he's happy and comfortable. It's not rocket science! I just need to get to know what works for me and him, which, and you have to accept this at some point, might not be the same as what works for you and him."

"Do you know how it sounds to me, to have you just dismiss everything I do as 'not rocket science' and to claim you could pick it up in a few days, or that I'm doing it wrong!"

"No! God!" John rubbed his face again. "That's not even close to what I'm saying."

Mary sniffed. "Maybe we should stop talking about Ben. Maybe we should talk about you and me instead."

"Yeah, because that's going _brilliantly_."

"Fine, OK," she snapped, "it's not working at the moment. I'm on edge when you're around, and you clearly hate being around me, so what are we going to do about it?"

John thought. His mind remained spectacularly blank. "What do you want to do about it?" he asked eventually.

"I was wondering about counselling. Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Yes, yes I do. I thought it was a good idea nine months ago too."

Mary snorted. "Oh, so you're going to get all pissy about who suggested what and when, are you? Can you not think of any reasons why I might not have wanted to attend counselling when I was newly pregnant, John?"

"I'm just saying; I'll go to counselling," John said steadily. "I think it's a good idea."

"OK. Good. And about you coming home…"

"Yes?"

There was a long pause. "I don't want you to yet."

John bit his lip to try to hold his annoyance in. "OK. Do you have any idea of how long you'll want me away for? Just so I can plan?"

"Don't be like that."

"I'm not! You're telling me that I can't come home. I think I've got a right to react a little bit, don't you?" John felt his pulse racing and the bile rising in his throat.

"Why are you so angry all the time! This is why I don't want you around! I'm just finding it a little easier to cope knowing you definitely aren't going to be here, rather than sitting around wondering if you'll bother showing up, and if you do, what time that might be and what sort of mood you'll be in."

John almost threw the phone in frustration. "I've always, always called or texted to let you know when I'll be home! Every time."

"Yes, and it's always been pretty clear that if Sherlock needs you for longer, then Ben and I will come second."

John's brain skidded to a sudden halt. "What?"

"You go there after work every day, don't you? It's not all late lectures and urgent cases or paperwork to catch up on. You pop by just to see if Sherlock might need anything, and if he doesn't, then you bother to come home. I'm not stupid, John."

"That isn't even close to true! Sherlock and I talk maybe once or twice a week, and he sometimes visits."

"Yeah, and if he could just bloody call before he just shows up…"

"He's my friend! He's welcome to visit me in my home without registering his intentions in advance!"

"And you'll leap up and go whenever. You're in bloody Devon now, aren't you? Running around after that bloody horse, because he asked you to!"

"You threw me out!" John shouted. He remembered where he was an reined his voice back in. "Was I supposed to sit around moping at Sherlock's flat until you decided that it might be OK to come home? Is that what I was supposed to do? You'll have to explain this to me, because I'm clearly not doing separation in exactly the way that you've planned either!"

"I just want you to choose to be home with me sometimes! Sometimes I just wish you'd never met bloody Sherlock Holmes."

"We'd never have met then," John pointed out.

"Would that be a bad thing?"

John didn't know how to answer this. He leant back against the headboard and put his phone on the bed. He heard her talking again and put it to his ear again.

"What?" he asked.

"I asked if you even love me anymore."

He didn't know how to answer this either. "Do you love me?" he asked.

There was a similar pause at the other end of the phone.

"I think I want to," she said eventually.

"Great. Thanks."

"I want you to love me as much as you love him," she said. "I don't mean physically, obviously that's not... I just want you to want to spend time with me, the way you spend time with him."

John swallowed. "I can't believe you think that, after…after I've tried so hard to keep him at arm's length. I hardly ever go off and work with him anymore. I don't just sit around while he talks at me in his flat, and I miss it, Mary, I really, really miss being around my friend! But I gave it up, for you. For you and Ben. And he's tried too; he doesn't ask me anymore, because he knows that you two come first, and he doesn't want to make me torn. I can't believe that you haven't even noticed that." He wiped his face. "I really don't know what more you want from me."

There was another long pause. When Mary's voice came back, it was calm and steady. "Where have you been then? If you're not with him, then…. Oh, God! Is there another woman?"

"What?" John sat up again. "Hell no! Jesus, I can barely manage one relationship! I hardly think I'm going to rush into another."

"You think I'm something to be managed? Nice."

"No! No, no, could you please stop misinterpreting everything I say?"

"Could you please stop talking rubbish then? Where have you been? Just afternoon strolls along riverbanks?"

John was silent. His heart was racing again, and his head was buzzing in an infuriating fashion.

"Well?" Mary prompted.

"I've been at…I've been at betting shops." He closed his eyes and wished he could take the words back.

"What?"

"Bookies. I've been spending time at the bookies."

There was another pause. "Have you been gambling?" Mary asked.

John snorted. "Yes. It generally is what one does in betting shops. That's what I'm doing at the computer too. I'm not looking at porn."

Mary ignored this. "Have you lost any money?"

John contemplated hanging up so that he didn't have to answer. He didn't though. "Yes," he whispered.

"Oh, God!"

John covered his eyes with his hand, and tried to shut all of this out. "No, you don't need to worry about it," he said desperately. "I'll pay it back."

"_How?_"

"I don't know. I don't know but I'll figure it out. It's not much, and Sherlock's going to help in the short term so that…"

"_Sherlock's_ going to help? Jesus Christ, John! You talked to him before you talked to me? Were you even going to tell me at all?"

"Look, Mary…" John didn't know how to finish the sentence. His head spun and throbbed.

"John, just…I think I'm going to need some time to process all of this."

"But Ben…," he said urgently.

"We'll work out when you can see Ben when you get back to London. Seriously I…I don't know what to think. Is it a lot of money that you've lost?"

John hung his head. "It's…it's a couple of thousand pounds maybe."

"Jesus!"

"Look, I know…I'm trying to do something about it."

"Please don't call me for a while. I'll call you tomorrow when I've had time to think about this."

"Mary…."

"No, I've got to go. I think I can hear Ben."

The phone disconnected. John started at it for a few seconds, before he dropped it onto the bed as if it was suddenly burning him. He got up and paced around the room, and finding that this wasn't satisfying him, he grabbed his coat and the room key and left.

He walked around Tavistock for nearly an hour before he realised it was slightly too big for him to just bump into Sherlock, and he had no way of finding out where Sherlock was without his phone which was still on the bed in the hotel room, so he headed back there. There were still lights on in the police station across the road, and he thought vaguely of the piles of reports and the frantic searching for the missing horse as if that were of any importance at all. He shook his head and went back inside. Sherlock was still not there, so John turned the television on, found a handy pen, and went back to his newspapers.

It was after nine when Sherlock came back, looking slightly wired, and smelling strongly of cigarette smoke. He glanced at John.

"You talked to her then."

"Yes, it didn't go…"

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock suddenly demanded.

John startled and froze, and Sherlock marched across the room and snatched the paper from under his arms. It was the Racing Post and John sat up in alarm.

"Oh, no! I know what it looks like, but…"

"It looks like you're an imbecile!" Sherlock roared. He threw the paper across the room and turned away.

"No! I'm not!" John protested. "We're investigating a race horse so I thought I'd see what was being said!"

Sherlock turned again and snatched the pen from John's hand and waved it under his nose. "You expect me to believe you made innocent notes on the articles? How often do you do that for non-racing related cases?"

"No, I was just passing the time, that's all! It's no different than crosswords or Sudoku!"

Sherlock threw the pen too. He was white with rage, and for a split second, John felt afraid.

"Please believe me, Sherlock. I was just looking! I wasn't going to place a bet, I swear!"

Sherlock's eyes glanced at John's phone, and John tried to get to it first. Sherlock reached it first though, and he turned his back while John grabbed at him and tried to get it back. Sherlock held the phone away so that he could switch the screen on, but John grabbed at his arm and twisted. Sherlock yelped in pain and dropped the phone. He shrugged John off causing him to fall heavily to the floor and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

John sat on the floor, his blood burning through his veins. He leapt up and tried the bathroom door and became wild when he found it locked. He kicked it hard. It was solid, and it didn't even leave a mark.

"I can't believe you don't trust me!" he yelled. "Thanks so much for being such a brilliant friend!"

"Shut up!" Sherlock roared back.

John flung his hands in the air and went back to his bed. He picked up the newspaper and tried to straighten and flatten the pages to get back to what he was doing. He looked down the list of his neat calculations by the sides of the horses' names; small figures representing potential wagers and subsequent multiplications. He took a slow, deep breath. If he was being entirely fair, he thought, the figures did look exactly as though he was actually weighing odds with the intention of placing a bet. Some of the calculations had little check marks by them.

"So much for not jumping to the wrong conclusions," John muttered meanly.

He retrieved his phone from Sherlock's bed. He felt a strange triumphant relief that Sherlock hadn't unlocked it in their struggle. The phone had been left on Ladbrokes' home page, and he felt certain that Sherlock would misinterpret that too. All he had been doing was checking to see how odds had changed since the time the newspaper was printed. He sat back down on the end of his bed and glanced about for his pen and straightened the paper some more.

The sound of the shower being turned on startled him, and he shook his head.

He looked at the paper and the phone and thought that it really could look, to someone on the outside, to someone who didn't know him, as though he was already placing bets.

He suddenly felt very cold.

It looked _exactly_ like that.

He knew; he was _sure_ that he had not yet made a bet. He knew he was just holding himself on the edge of the cliff, testing and taunting himself, seeing how close he could go without actually leaping off. He knew exactly what he was doing. In the past fortnight alone, he'd done the same thing some four or five times. Four or five times in the last fortnight, he'd eventually picked up the phone, or hit 'enter' on his keyboard, or gone to the betting window and thrown himself away for the rest of the evening.

He let the paper fall to the floor and covered his face, fighting the urge to curl up and sob like a child. He kicked at the floor and caught the edge of the newspaper and it rustled beneath his foot. He bent double, still sitting on the bed, wrapped his arms around his stomach and tried hard to breath. Sobs came from far away and he couldn't fight them.

He thought briefly of packing his bag and running away. He could leave his phone in the room, and perhaps even Sherlock wouldn't be able to find him again.

He looked out of the window. The moor stretched for miles, and in the twilight it was nothing but darkness where he could probably lie close to the ground, undiscovered for days and days. Just him on the moor with the rabbits and horses.

He wiped his face and realised that he was about as close to complete despair as he ever had been before.

The bathroom door opened and he knew he'd missed his chance. He turned his face away and tried to control his breathing.

Sherlock was reflected in the window, and he walked in quietly, wearing a towel. He didn't look towards John, but rummaged in his bag for pyjamas which he put on. He rubbed his hair on the towel again, and let it fall to the floor.

Then he looked at John.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I reacted badly. I apologise."

John shook his head and roughly wiped his face. "You've got a right to question me."

"No I don't. I haven't bought you, John."

"I can't take your money," John said quietly. "I can't do it. It doesn't matter anyway; Mary knows now, so the whole thing's a bit pointless. You have the right to question me just because you're a friend. I do it to you."

Sherlock sat on the end of his own bed. "Yes. You do it in a more measured intelligent way though." John snorted a laugh in response and Sherlock smiled. "I have to admit," Sherlock went on, "I'm not finding it comfortable being on this side of this particular fence."

"No. I'm not much enjoying this side either." He looked up at Sherlock. "I really, really haven't put any more money on tonight. I was probably going to do so, but I hadn't yet. So you came back at just the right time."

"Standing at the precipice," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"I do it too. Pick up a needle, just so see if I can hold it without doing anything else. Just holding myself in the balance, weighing my resolve. It makes me feel powerful."

"Yeah, that's it exactly." John sniffed, and wished he could get the heaviness out of his voice. "Have you ever beaten it? Have you ever not jumped in bt walked away?"

"No."

"No." John wiped his face again. "Did you talk to the security people?"

"What? Oh, them. Yes. Apparently it's all impossible, and they have no idea what happened. They're based in London, but they've got a local rep who they'll send out tomorrow to take a look at the equipment and the set up."

"Oh. OK." He rubbed his eyes and sat quietly. He suddenly frowned. "Where've you been all this time anyway? I came looking for you."

"Did you? I was in a meeting."

"What meeting?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "A meeting meeting."

John frowned, but then the penny dropped. "NA? Really?"

"No. Tavistock doesn't have quite enough narcotic abusers it seems, and only enough alcoholics for two meetings a week, but I was passing and it seemed like a good idea. I went to sit in with them. They didn't mind."

"Oh, God. Really? I just…" John tried to shake the concept into his head. "Sorry. I think I've been a bit too self-obsessed lately. I didn't notice. I'm really sorry."

"Oh, I'm fine. And of course, I've got the safety net of there not being a big narcotics scene in Tavistock. The craving will pass if I'm careful and I give it enough time, I'm sure. I was just surprised because it's not usually this bad when I'm working. It's the blanks between cases that are the problems."

"But I didn't…" John turned to look at Sherlock. "Is this because of me? Because of all the stress and silliness?"

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "No John. What is it they say in Al-anon? The three 'c's? You didn't cause this, you can't control this and…what's the other one? It doesn't spring immediately to mind."

John stared blankly. He frowned. "When did you go to Al-anon?"

"Oh, I've been everywhere. You never know where you might be told some useful piece of information."

"Huh. I wish Mary had someone with her now to help her make sense of it."

"She'll already have spoken to her sister, and probably her friends, and the people on Mumsnet."

"Are you stalking my wife?" he asked. He found he was amused by the notion.

"Not particularly. She does these things though."

"Mm."

"You look exhausted. You should go to bed. I'm going to bed."

"Really?"

"Yes. There's nothing to do now, and there's nothing particularly to think about until tomorrow." He lay back on his bed above the covers and stared at the ceiling. "Hard as it might be for you to believe, I don't actually forego sleep when there's no reason to."

"No." John suddenly felt crushingly tired. He went to the bathroom to change and brushed his teeth while staring at his haggard, red face in the mirror above the sink. He went back to get into his bed, and Sherlock turned the lights off.

"Cure," John said.

"What?"

"That's the missing c. Didn't cause it, can't control it, can't cure it."

"Oh yes, that's it."

"Mary didn't cause this. It's all me. I know it is."

"Mm. Sometimes I wish someone else could control it for a while. Let someone else have a turn."

"Mycroft tried, remember?"

"Oh yeah. That was rubbish. Maybe they're right after all."

"Maybe." John was asleep within the next three minutes.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

John slept heavily. He dreamt he was walking across a field with someone following him. He wasn't alarmed or upset; he assumed they'd catch up with him sooner or later. His feet got heavier though, and he looked down and found he'd stumbled into a marshy bog. The water was cold and heavy on his feet. He turned to call to the second person, but he found he was alone and miles from solid ground. The weeds were pulling him down, and quite suddenly he was under the cloudy water, weeds tangling and wrapping around him as he tried to move, and too afraid to breathe.

He woke sharply, panting, hot and with his heart racing. He scrambled out of the bed and hurried around it, past Sherlock's still, quiet form, and into the bathroom. He thought he might have heard a tentative 'John?', but he couldn't bring himself to look, and he chose to pretend Sherlock had slept through the disturbance.

He closed the bathroom door as quietly as he could before he turned on the light. There was no exterior window in the bathroom, so the extractor fan whirred noisily into life as the light went on. John ran the cold tap and dowsed his face in the water. The coldness helped, and he cupped his hand and drank some too. He closed the lid of the toilet, sat down and tried to get his breathing back to a steadier rhythm.

It only took a few minutes for him to feel calmer. His stomach stopped spinning and as the nausea died away it was replaced by the urgent reminder that he hadn't eaten anything for nearly twenty-four hours. He rolled his eyes.

"That's probably not helping," he muttered.

There was a glass on a glass shelf above the sink, and he filled it and drank some more water.

When he was sure he was perfectly steady again, he crept to the door and listened for any noises beyond. He turned off the light before opening the door, but he found he was scuppered as the room lamps were already on, and Sherlock was standing at the end of his bed, fully dressed, sipping at a cup of coffee.

"Ah, there you are," he said. "I've made you a cup of tea."

John looked to the tray with the travel-kettle and small cups that was on the dresser. Sure enough, one of the cups was filled with a pallid pool of liquid.

"Thank you," he said.

"Do you want to come for a walk to Mapleton with me?"

John frowned and wondered if he was still dreaming. "What time is it?"

"It's just after four. I thought if we set off now, we could probably get to there before they take the horses out for the morning exercise."

"Why?"

"Because I'm curious." He looked John up and down. "Are you all right?"

"What?"

"Are you unwell?" Sherlock glanced at the bathroom.

"Oh, no, I'm fine." John emptied a couple of sachets of sugar into his tea and sipped at it. "Do you imagine anywhere in Tavistock serves a twenty-four hour breakfast?"

Sherlock smiled. "I shouldn't think so. This is the best hotel here, and it can't muster up a decent room service. You'll have to wait until we're on the moors and forage for berries for your breakfast."

This was so similar to what he'd imagined the night before that John found himself drifting away on the daydream.

"Are you sure you're quite all right?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John snapped out of it. "I'm fine." He swallowed down the tea and grimaced at the taste. "Give me five minutes to get dressed, and I'll be right with you."

A short time later they were walking down the road towards King's Pyland again. Both had their torches out as they walked along. They were undisturbed by cars or other walkers, and John settled to enjoy the quiet darkness, trying hard not to utter foolish and obvious statements like 'it's very dark'. He yawned widely.

"I should have left you in bed," Sherlock said.

"I'm fine. It's just because I'm hungry."

"You're yawning because you're hungry." Sherlock said, amused.

"Are you sure you haven't got any biscuits or a chocolate bar secreted away in that coat of yours?"

"I'm certain." They walked in silence for a while. "I've been thinking about Mapleton."

"Yes, I assumed," John said brightly. "I thought there must be some reason you wanted to take a stroll down there at four in the morning."

"Why would there be so many sightings at Mapleton Stables?"

"I don't know. Could be that lots of people can't tell the difference between two different horses. Could be people's imagination. Could be all about Jennifer's Lad of course."

Sherlock frowned. "How so?"

"Well, people around here like Silver Blaze, and I'm sure it's not lost on any of them that their local hero has a rival. I'm not saying it's malicious or anything, but people are strange like that."

"I don't understand. Why is Silver Blaze a local hero while Jennifer's Lad isn't? It's a distance of two miles between them. It's hardly worth thinking about."

"Well yeah, but Silver Blaze is from around here. Home grown and all that. Jennifer's lad was born in Ireland to an Irish mare and a Saudi Arabian sire. I mean Arabian in the geographical sense in this case; I don't mean the sire was the Arabian breed, but he came from Saudi Arabia. What?" Sherlock had stopped. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm currently marvelling in a society that puts value in the ethnic background of a _horse._"

"Well, people can be stupid. Jennifer's Lad is a really good horse though, and comes from good stock."

"Maybe," Sherlock started walking again. "Silver Blaze is also good though. And what about that other friend of yours? Jabberwocky. Aren't they all good horses?"

"Well yeah, but Jabberwocky isn't in the same league as the other two. Not yet anyhow."

Sherlock glanced at him, but carried on walking silently.

"There must be some way of just enjoying the form of different horses," John said, reading his mind. "I mean, to not even look at them just seems really silly. I can look at dogs without weighing up which one goes fastest and that doesn't make the need to bet on them any lesser. Maybe the love of the animals isn't connected to the gambling at all."

"Mm."

They walked on in silence.

"By the way," John said, after a while, "Mary doesn't want me to come home, or to call her."

"For how long?"

"She didn't say. Does the offer of a room still stand?"

"Yes."

"I can't pay rent."

"You'll have to take that up with Mrs Hudson. I couldn't guarantee anything, but I'd suspect she'll be so delighted see you return to keep me in line that she won't quibble over rent. Not for a while anyhow."

"I don't want to take advantage though."

"Then you'll have to work off your debt. You could start by rehanging her curtains. She asked me six weeks ago and I still haven't found a moment for it. What's going to happen with Mary?"

"I don't know."

"What do you want to happen?"

"I don't know that either."

Sherlock sighed. "You've always seemed so sure about her before. Did you discuss counselling?"

"Briefly. That was before I made my gambling admission though. I think that might have made the earlier part of the discussion a bit void."

"Why did you tell her? I thought we'd agreed that you wouldn't."

"Yes. But then I found I couldn't not. She thought I was having an affair."

"Ah."

"I'm not having an affair, Sherlock!"

"No, I know. I can see why she hadn't discounted the possibility though."

"I'm not that much of a womaniser!"

"Not recently no, but…"

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about it."

"Yes, let's stop talking now."

They walked in a happy silence until they reached the branch in the road that led to King's Pyland. Just visible through a line of trees were the back of the two houses in which the stable hands lived. Lights shone in the windows.

"Why would anyone work in a job that required them to get up so early?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Horses are really, really nice," John replied.

"Can't they exercise them at any time?"

"Theoretically, yes. I'm sure there are reasons for going early though. Maybe they don't want people to see them train, and this cuts down the possibility."

"Surely a hardened gambler would be prepared to get up early to check on a horses form?"

"No. We're lazy sods who stay up too late."

"Fair enough."

They turned and walked quietly along the road for several more miles until the complex of Mapleton Stables loomed up on their right. The private road that led into it was wide, well signposted, and even in the dusk it was clear that it was well maintained. Mapleton was obviously a larger and richer establishment than King's Pyland. Sherlock stood at the end of it for a while, shining his torch along it.

"Do you want to go in?" John asked.

"No. In fact let's move now. If any of the riders live off site, then they'll need to pass this way, and I'd rather not be seen. They continued walking along the road with the high walls surrounding Mapleton on their right and the empty expanse of the moor to their left. Sherlock shone his torch beam upwards at the wall and the razor wired fence glinted back down at them.

"Also pretty clear about their security needs," John commented.

Eventually they reached the end of the complex and Sherlock turned to survey the area as best he could in the darkness.

"I would think they bring the horses out this way, and then go along the wide path onto the moor that we passed."

"We passed a wide path?" John asked.

"We did." Sherlock led John about fifty meters back up the road. They reached the path and Sherlock shone his torch downwards to show the jumbled maze of hoof prints in the dirt there. "We'll go a little way in. There's bound to be enough cover for us around here." He led them off the track a little way until they found some gorse bushes that they could squat in front of.

They switched off their torches and waited.

The eastern sky started to brighten slightly, but dawn was still a long way off. John found that he could see quite clearly for quite some distance, and he fretted about their cover. Sherlock sat like a statue beside him.

Eventually they heard the sounds of hooves coming along the road. The horses were brought onto the moor exactly where Sherlock suggested, and they formed a line as they started walking towards their training ground. Five horses in single file walked past about twenty meters from John and Sherlock. As the fourth horse passed, John couldn't prevent his hand shooting out and grabbing Sherlock by the wrist.

Sherlock gave a very quiet grunt, and John waited until the riders were well into the distance before he whispered.

"That was Jennifer's Lad. Last horse but one."

"Did you see Sliver Blaze?" Sherlock whispered back.

"Silver Blaze was there?"

"No, I'm asking; was Silver Blaze there?"

"I don't know," John answered. Sherlock turned to glare at him. "It's really dark, Sherlock."

"Yes, it's really dark, and you still recognised Jennifer's Lad. Wouldn't you have managed to identify the best horse in the country?"

John thought. "No, I'm pretty sure Silver Blaze wasn't there."

"How sure is 'pretty sure'?"

"I'm very sure."

"Fine." Sherlock sat back and sighed. "I was certain we'd find him here."

"But the police have checked here twice."

"Yes, but the police around here seem to have developed their own special strand of stupidity. I made a friend at the meeting last night. He was more than half cut, so it was quite hard to take everything he said seriously and of course the leader kept steering him back to talking about the drink…"

"Selfish man. Wait a second, so this attending a meeting thing was actually about gathering information? And you let me think it was some sort of solidarity?"

"Like I said, it seemed like a good opportunity, and that was for a myriad of different reasons. If I might be allowed to continue, this boy had just been fired from his job down here at Mapleton. Between the drunken rantings, he insisted that he'd seen Silver Blaze at the stables. Then apparently the horse magically disappeared. Like I say, it was quite hard to tell how much of it was sensible and how much of it was an angry man who'd just had his first drink in eight months, but I wanted to see for myself."

"Well, don't you want to go into the stables?"

"No. There'll be people there. I have another little theory that I want to test out first."

"What's that?"

"Well, it occurs to me that this magical disappearing horse has a couple of qualities that keep being overlooked."

"What?"

"He's got legs, and he can be made to go pretty fast."

"You think they're moving him around?"

"Yes. We know Straker led him away from King's Pyland before he was killed. We also saw several sets of horse prints moving away from there, but no horse. Two helicopter searches haven't found him on the moor, which would lead me to assume he was found and taken to somewhere close by. The horse was wild and scared, not to mention huge and potentially dangerous; an ordinary person couldn't have done it, but someone who knew horses could have done. Horses seem to need a specific set up, they have stalls and hay and stuff; he couldn't have been moved to someone's back garden or garage, not for this amount of time. So, he's at a stable, but they've all been checked, Mapleton more than once. My theory is that he wasn't there for at least one of the police checks, and he'd possibly been moved for both. Someone gets a tip that the police are coming, and they go and ride him around the moor for a while."

"So why don't we go inside and check now?"

"We'll be seen and questioned. Let's just wait here and see what happens when they come back."

"They might be hours."

"Possibly."

John sighed. "Is there any chance you'd let me nip back to Tavistock to get some breakfast while you wait."

"No chance at all. I need your special skills and I can't risk you not being here at the right time."

"Fine. I'll wait." John sighed deeply and shuffled to make himself a bit more comfortable.

Sherlock stared out onto the moor and didn't move at all. Not even when John eventually dropped his head against him and started snoring quietly.

It was nearly two hours later, and the sun was entirely up when Sherlock shook John awake again.

"They're coming back," he whispered. "It's too bright now; we'll need to move to the other side of the bushes. Stay quiet and stay low."

John did as instructed, and they worked their way around to the other side of the bushes. Sherlock grinned at him as they got there.

"Count the horses," he whispered

John looked. He grinned too. "There are six!"

"There are indeed. No, stay low." He grabbed John's wrist as he made a move to get up for a clearer look.

They waited, quiet and still, until the horses passed on the path in front of them.

"That's Silver Blaze!" John said, barely controlling his voice and nearly standing up again.

Sherlock pulled him back down again, but he'd been heard. The fourth rider, a man considerably older than the others, stopped sharply.

"There's someone there," he said sharply.

"You always think that," one of the other riders grumbled.

The older man ignored him and walked his horse carefully off the path towards the gorse bushes. John and Sherlock held their breath. The man appeared to turn his horse to leave again, but suddenly leapt down and rushed towards the bushes.

John shot up and rushed out at him.

"John!" Sherlock yelled.

The horse startled and ran back to the group of riders, while the man charged John down, hitting him hard on his head. John was floored, but Sherlock was already up too. The man spun around to face him, but was caught off balance and Sherlock had him over and down quickly. None of the other riders left their horses to help him. Sherlock rolled him onto his front and pinned him down with a knee.

"What the hell you doing?" the old man snarled.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Sod off!"

"He's Silas Brown," John said breathlessly and staggering to his feet. "He's the main trainer at Stapleton. And he's got Silver Blaze."

"I bloody haven't!"

"He's right there!" John said, laughing. He walked towards the line of horses; their riders were still staring blankly at the scene in front of them. John walked straight up to the last horse in the line. The rider seemed to wake up to what was happening and he turned his horse, but John was already too close. Before he could gallop away, John had caught hold of his reins. Silver Blaze, startled by the conflicting messages between John and the rider, reared up and dropped his rider to the ground.

"Hey. Hey there," John said calmly, backing away slightly, but keeping a loose hold of the rein. "OK there, settle down." He pulled Silver Blaze gently in and patted his neck. "There's a good boy." He led him back to the group.

"It's clearly not Silver Blaze," one of the other riders called, finding her confidence. "Silver Blaze has a white blaze up his nose. Hence the name."

John rubbed the horse's nose and laughed. "It's boot polish!" He held his hand up to show the sticky mark. "It's not a disguise that holds up when you're close. This horse is quite clearly Silver Blaze."

"Gerrof me!" Brown yelled. "I can't bloody breathe!" Sherlock relaxed his grip slightly and the man pulled himself up. "I didn't steal the bloody horse. He found me, he did. He found me on the moors up near the runs."

"And rather than return him to his owner, you brought him to Mapleton."

"I took good care of him."

"Clearly." Sherlock let go entirely and let Brown stand up. "You're a foolish man who caused a lot of upset. You could easily be charged with perverting the cause of justice" Brown staggered and went pale. Sherlock shook his head. "Go home. Take the horses home. My friend here will be taking charge of Silver Blaze though."

Brown slunk away to his horse and got back on. The horseless rider walked beside him, grumbling and rubbing his shoulder as they walked back to the road. John watched for a while, and then he rummaged through his pockets for a tissue. He wiped some of the polish off Silver Blaze's nose. Sherlock almost joined him, but stopped a good pace away.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah fine. Just a bit stunned."

"But the horse didn't hurt you when it went all wild?"

John laughed. "Hardly wild. I'm fine. Just really hungry, that's all."

"Good."

"Really, _really_ hungry. I mean a sandwich would probably do it for me now. Or a packet of biscuits. Anything really. Chocolate, for example."

"Fine, all right! We'll go back to Tavistock and feed you. You can bring the horse."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

They walked steadily back along the road to Tavistock. As they reached the turning down to King's Pyland they both slowed, wondering if they should simply return the horse there. Sherlock shook his head.

"Let's let Gregson do it."

They walked on.

"Of course, we could ride the horse," John suggested. Sherlock gave him a look so outraged that he grinned. "I'm just saying, it would be a bit more labour efficient."

"I'm _not_ riding a horse. I agreed to do without the car, but there are some things I will not stoop to."

John grinned happily and led the horse along the road.

"Why don't you take up riding?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"I was thinking it was a way to enjoy horses without feeling the urge to gamble."

"Oh. We'll see." John's face clouded over again. "Maybe it would work if it was just the horses, but it's not. Horses don't even meet that regularly, so I might even be able to keep that under control." He noticed Sherlock's alarmed look. "I won't though. I'm just saying that it's not just horses; it's dogs, it's football matches, it's tennis tournaments. It's everything, all the time. Hell, I lost a hundred and fifty quid betting that Brian Snell would be out of the government by May. I bloody hate Brian Snell."

"You're not alone. Even Mycroft's raged about his general incompetence."

"Well Mycroft would have been doing me a massive favour if he'd found a way of sacking him by the end of May."

Sherlock glanced at him. "I know of meetings in London." John pulled a face. Sherlock sighed and pressed on. "You need to start thinking about what you want to happen. It seems to me that you just want Mary to decide so that you can react to her decision. There was no reason to tell her about the gambling, but you did, so that she could tell you to stop, so it would be a sacrifice you were making for her, not you."

"But she thought…"

"I know what she thought; why would she not? You've had lustful thoughts about three different women since we arrived in Devon, but you haven't looked that way about Mary since…. Well, not for a long time. You know that's a problem, it's almost as though you want her to think you're looking elsewhere so you can be self-righteous about your fidelity."

"No! What are you talking about? I want to be faithful to my wife!"

"Really? Because when you were first married you could probably walk past a string of catwalk models without the slightest flicker of anything. You didn't need to 'want to be faithful' then. It just happened."

John gritted his teeth. "Really? Anything else you've observed?"

"Yes. You were angry at the vague suggestion that she might want to make the separation permanent, but you've been thinking about it too. You talked about 'assets of the marriage' on the train, and made the strange suggestion that you might have assets that aren't a part of the marriage. Nobody does that unless they're thinking of how these assets might be divided, but you haven't said anything because you don't want to be the first to say it. You say you want to talk to her, but you don't call her, so you can be angry when she doesn't call, and refuse to talk to her when she does. You talk about counselling, but you haven't done anything about it…"

"I can't go to counselling on my own!"

"Why not? You've been twice before that I know about, but you've chosen not to go now; when you're angry and upset and can't stay away from betting shops, and your whole marriage is in the balance."

John flushed angrily and looked away.

"I'm sorry to talk like this," Sherlock said calmly. "I don't like doing it, especially when you're hungry and tired, but it's what I think. I think you need to choose what you want to happen now, rather than playing the victim."

"I'm not!" John snapped. "I just…" he stopped himself.

"Well, what would I know?" Sherlock said quietly. "I told you I'm no expert, but it seems like the sort of thing a friend might say. If it isn't; I apologise. Either way, you don't have to listen. Why don't we just pretend I'm not here and you've stormed out to get some air or something."

John walked steadily along, trying not to sulk. After a few minutes, he took a deep breath. "Sometimes you're so very like her."

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"Both of you say things about me, and I instantly think; that's nothing like me at all, and then when I think further I recognise it so clearly." They plodded along. "I still don't know what I want to do. Logically, _logically_ I think I want out now. It's been too long and it calls for too many changes from both of us. The thought terrifies me though. I hate the idea that I've failed. And there's my Ben. I want my boy."

"She'll want him too."

"Yes. And I don't want to take him from her. That just seems cruel, and realistically it would be no good for him at all." He sighed. "So then the only choice I have is to stay with her and work on it and try to start enjoying it, and I'm not entirely sure that's possible." They walked quietly for a while. "She thinks we're too close; you and me. She thinks it's weird. I gave you the keys to the flat precisely because she told me not to. She wanted us to leave a set with the neighbours for emergencies, but I got two sets cut and gave them to you anyway."

"I know."

John snorted. "Of course you do. I've told her to imagine you like a brother and she says she can't."

Sherlock nodded calmly. "Then I think the question is; could you be happy with her if I'd never have existed?"

"You do exist though."

"But you can imagine."

They plodded along, John staring at the road as he walked. "You know," he said finally, "I don't think I could be happy at all if you didn't exist. I have no idea why I feel the need to torture myself with your company, but for some reason it works for me better than a proper family life. Huh, maybe that's my true addiction; to the chaos that goes with you. Oh, God!" he said, panicked.

"What?"

"I think I just accidentally wrote a pop song."

Sherlock laughed, and John shook his head and grinned.

When they got back to Tavistock, John tied Silver Blaze to a drain pipe in the parking area at the police station.

"Are you sure he'll be OK here?" he fussed.

"He'll be fine. We'll eat at the hotel and we can see him from the window."

"OK then," John gave him one last pet and followed Sherlock across the road.

They settled into the window table in the restaurant on the ground floor, and John gazed out the window to where Silver Blaze stood perfectly serenely outside the police station, twitching his ears and occasionally pulling at the weeds that were growing at the bottom of the building.

"Mrs Hudson has a no pet's policy," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"You can't bring him home."

John smiled. "You had rats."

"They weren't pets; they were specimens. She made me pay extra rent for them too."

The waitress interrupted them and John distracted himself with ordering a mountain of breakfast. The list of food was so long it even made Sherlock feel slightly hungry, and he reluctantly asked for some toast.

John had nearly reached the bottom of the food mountain when a car slowed and carefully pulled into the car-park opposite. Chief Inspector Gregson got out of it, looking flabbergasted. He scratched his head, approached the horse, backed off again, and went closer to put a hand tentatively on Silver Blade's shoulder.

Sherlock grinned and stood to open the window by their table. "Chief Inspector!" he called, leaning out. "We found your horse!"

Gregson turned to see him and hurried across the road to the hotel. He found his way into the restaurant and rushed over to them.

"Oh well done! Well done indeed!" He pumped on Sherlock's hand.

"It was John who spotted him," Sherlock said.

Gregson looked to John who was still eating steadily and showed no willingness to use either hand for anything else. Gregson settled for squeezing his shoulder hard.

"Oh thank you very much. Thank you indeed!"

"Sit down," Sherlock said, gesturing to the third chair. "If you wait a bit, we'll be able to see which of your officers have been tipping Mapleton Stables off about police checks."

"He was at Mapleton?"

"He was indeed."

John drained his cup of tea. "So is that it then?" he asked. "Are we heading home?" He put another forkful of sausage into his mouth.

"Why would we be going home?" Sherlock asked. "We haven't solved the case yet. Why is everyone so determined to forget that two people have been killed here?"

"Oh yeah," John said, loading his fork again.

"I have some news on that," Gregson said. "I was going to call you from the station. Toxicology reports came back and young Clarke had both…hang on, Doctor Philmore wrote it down for you." He rummaged through his pockets and a fairly large pile of pens, receipts, evidence bags and used forensic gloves appeared on the table. "Here we are; benzodiazepine and lysergic acid diethylamide both in his system. Also traces of cannabis."

"LSD," Sherlock said. "So he already had it in his system."

"That shouldn't have killed him," John said. "Even in tandem. How much was in there?"

"That's the thing," Gregson said. "Doctor Philmore is of your mind; there was much more than a trace, but not a lethal dose of the benzo-thingy. The LSD was several times higher than expected from one dose though. He certainly died from that."

"They'll have dipped it," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"The paper needs to be held above the acid and allowed to absorb the fumes. If you dip it or put it on with a dropper of some description, the dose is far too high. One of the beauties of the drug was that you could make an awful lot of tabs with a very small amount of the substance." He looked at their faces. "Obviously I use the word 'beauty' in a very specific sense."

"I need more tea," John announced. He waved to the waitress.

"Ah, here comes Williams," Gregson said. "I'll call him in."

"No, let's see how he reacts to the horse," Sherlock said.

They watched through the window as Williams stopped suddenly on seeing Silver Blaze. Like Gregson had, he approached tentatively. He got more sure as he got close though, and looking furtively from side to side, he quickly untied him and started leading him back to the road. Sherlock smiled.

"I thought so," he said. "The other one seems far to cross about it all. He was bored. Boredom can be so very destructive. Here comes the other one now."

They watched as Stafford approached, stopped in surprise, and then rushed to Williams, grinning broadly.

"You found him!" she cried, loudly enough for them to hear. "Oh, you found him!" She hugged Williamson, and he looked fit to vomit. She broke away and petted the horse.

"Poor man," Sherlock said. "He's really stuck now."

"I'll skin him alive," Gregson said, flushed with anger.

John's phone rang and they all jumped. John sagged a bit.

"Sorry, I have to take this." He picked up his tea and took it to a quiet booth in the restaurant to answer it.

"Is everything quite all right with the doctor?" Gregson asked.

"Yes, he's fine."

Gregson nodded dismissively. "Philmore sent the measurements too. The horse shoe measurements from the body."

"Thank you. It's a bit arbitrary now, but it would be useful to double check that they definitely came from Silver Blaze. You should go and retrieve him from your young man now. I'll wait here for John." His face became carefully blank, and Gregson nodded and walked away. Sherlock watched him take the horse from Williams and pass the reins pointedly to Stafford. She listened to his quiet words, nodded and led the horse away towards King's Pyland. Gregson placed his hand firmly on Williams' shoulder and took him into the police station.

John was less than ten minutes before he came back to the table. He put his phone on it and sat down again.

"She wants a divorce," he said. "She doesn't want to wait for things to get as bad as they did in her first marriage."

Sherlock nodded, but didn't speak.

"I've agreed," John said. "I've asked her to wait though. I've told her I want to be somewhere else while I get the gambling thing under control, for Ben's sake more than anything else; I don't want him to have a dad that's this much of a mess. I've asked her for three months to see if I can get a handle on me and us, and I've asked her to go for couples counselling during that time. I'm going to make some appointments with Ella for myself too, and if I can sort myself out, then perhaps at that point we can see if we can start working on the marriage again."

"Did she agree to that?"

"She did at first, but then she told me that she didn't want me to live with you during that time. Apparently you're a bad influence. I've told her she doesn't get to decide where I live when I'm not living with her, and she's gone to have another think. I've left it in her hands to decide whether she wants to see a solicitor straight away, or whether she wants to wait, but I've decided for myself that I'm not going home right now."

"What about Ben? You must be allowed to see him while she's deciding."

"Yes. I said I'd like to have him two days a week, she said I could see him for a few hours on alternate days and bring him back to her for feeding. It's not ideal, but I'm happy to start with that. I have, in effect, stolen nearly seven thousand pounds from her. Well, from us. Whichever way we look at it, I'm not in a great bargaining position right now. Maybe with the counselling or mediation, we can work on something else though."

"It'll be chaotic."

"I'll deal with it."

John stared out of the widow again, and Sherlock found he had no words, so he just sat quietly.

Chief Inspector Gregson came back and disturbed their silence.

"Well this is a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake," he said.

"No," Sherlock said slowly. "They're clearly horses."

John giggled suddenly. "OK," he said, shaking his head. "Where next?"

"Let's go back and see Edith Straker."

"Why?"

"I think she might be ready to confess."

Inspector Gregson's jaw dropped. "You think _Edith_ killed him."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Inspector Gregson's jaw dropped. "You think _Edith_ killed him."

"Who do you mean by 'him'?"

"Anybody! Either of them!"

Sherlock smiled. "I think Edith thinks so anyway. Now, if you've quite finished, John, shall we be off?"

Sherlock started grumbling about the walk before they'd made it out of the hotel, so they ended up driving the short distance in Gregson's car. They parked just in front of the houses and Gregson went to knock on the door. When there was no answer, he tried the door handle and opened it.

"Hello?" he called. There was still no reply, but there was the sound of music coming from inside the house, so they went quietly inside. They went along a short corridor and down two steps to the kitchen, where Edith was chopping vegetables and singing along to a song that was blaring from the radio.

"Two people murdered within a mile radius of here, and she still leaves the house unlocked," Sherlock muttered, amused.

"People do around here, and old habits die hard," Gregson answered. "Miss Straker?" he called loudly.

She screamed and spun around, still clutching at her knife. Gregson and John's hands went up instinctively.

"Miss Straker, I'm sorry to disturb you, but we had further questions," Gregson said calmly.

Edith put her knife down and held her hand to her chest. "Yes of course. I'm sorry; I'm a bit jumpy still. I'm sorry I had to stop yesterday."

"Where's the lady who was here yesterday?" John asked.

"My aunt? She's gone to the airport to pick up Mum."

Sherlock turned the radio off. "Are you sure you're well enough to talk now?"

"Yes." She looked at him and nodded carefully. "Yes, I think I want to talk about it now."

"Shall we sit down?" Sherlock asked. He nodded to the wooden kitchen table, and Edith obediently sat down at it. He sat down opposite her, and John took the seat by his side.

"Edith," Sherlock said, "your father knew about your relationship with Nathan Clarke, didn't he?"

Edith didn't take her eyes of the table, but she nodded her head.

"That wasn't what you argued about on Monday, was it?"

There was a pause, and then Edith shook her head.

"He wanted to talk to you about the drugs again, was that it?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Nathan had said he would stop. Dad let him keep his job on trust, and because I asked him. But…" She stopped and shook her head again. "On Monday afternoon we rowed about it. Dad said that he didn't think Nathan had stopped his drug use, and he said I had to choose; either Nathan could keep his job at the stables, or I could keep seeing him. Nathan couldn't stay working at King's Pyland if he was going to be my boyfriend." Tears started flowing down Edith's face. "He said I absolutely must not go down there that night, and that if I did, he'd chuck Nathan out."

"Nathan hadn't stopped his drug use," Sherlock said.

"He tried, he really did but…"

"Edith, where did you get the tabs that Nathan took that evening?"

Edith covered her face and sobbed into her hands. "I didn't know!" she wailed. "I didn't know they were poisoned! I'd never, ever have given him them if I'd have known! I just wanted to go down there and for us to have a good time again. Like in the old days." She sobbed and sniffed.

"Where did you get them from?" Sherlock asked again.

"The man. The man we saw at the gate on Monday morning. We were chatting and it was all…it was all friendly and funny like. He said he'd pay us for Silver Blaze. It was like a joke, he laughed about it, and then he got this little packet out, and waved it around. He said he didn't have the cash for a race horse, but he could keep us sweet in other ways." She sniffed and shook her head. "Nathan said we couldn't, that we should call my dad. But he was right there, and I just wanted a bit of a good time!"

"What did you give him in return?" John asked.

"Nothing! Really nothing. He just chatted a bit, and we talked about the security and how to look after the horses. He said if we wanted more of the stuff, to give him a call."

"Did he give you his card?" Sherlock asked.

"No. He wrote his number down on a receipt."

"Can I have it?"

"I lost it on the moor. I threw it away after..."

The men waited, poised, but she didn't finish her sentence. John frowned at her.

"So, you took the drugs from this man, and you called your father to report him anyway?"

"Alan came around and saw us, so I took out my phone and called Dad. The man grinned though, like it was all a big joke. Dad didn't take it seriously either. He just walked down from the house and had a bit of a look around, but he said it was probably someone just messing around." She sniffed and seemed calmer now. "We get people asking and poking around all the time. It's never usually a big deal."

"But your dad argued with you about the drugs after that?"

"Later, when I got home. I was awful. I slapped him." She went quiet and stared at the table, gathering her thoughts. "He said he thought Nathan was still using. He didn't say the same about me, but I think he wondered. I told him Nathan wasn't, but I know he was. He'd kept the tabs. I gave them to him to look after, and he kept them somewhere. I was supposed to go down that night to share them but…" She shook her head and more tears flowed.

"What happened later?" Sherlock asked. "After you found Nathan and came back here?"

She shook her head. "I don't remember."

Sherlock sat back, frustrated.

John sat forward and took Edith's hand. "Can you try, Edith? Nobody's going to get upset or cross; we just need to know what happened."

She wiped her face and looked at him. "I came back here. I thought Dad might have…I know he was angry and I was scared he might have…. He wasn't here. I freaked out and went next door to get Sarah and Alan. I don't remember much after that. I sat around for ages it seems, but then, I thought 'where's Dad?' He wasn't at the stables, and he wasn't here, and I didn't walk past him in between times. So where was he?"

"When did your father leave the house, Edith?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," she whispered. "Honest I don't. I was up in my room playing my music with headphones on. He could of gone out at any time. He might of been in when I left."

"But you don't know for sure?"

She swayed slightly. "Can I have some water, please?"

John got up to get it for her. Her hands shook as she drank it.

"I don't know for sure, but when I got back…when I got back he was already gone, and he wasn't on the road between. If he was in the stable when I was there, then he was in the dark and really quiet." She shuddered at the thought.

"What happened then, Edith," John asked, "when you realised he was missing?"

"I went back out to find Dad. It was silly really; I knew where he'd be."

"How?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. There was a place we liked to go, ever since I was little. We had picnics there and stuff. Never too far from the stable that he couldn't get back if needed, but far enough away so I'd think I had him all to myself. That's where I went. That's where Dad was." She looked up with starry eyes and frowned. "He was with Silver Blaze! I didn't get it at all! There was Dad, and the horse, and Nathan was dead and it was like the whole world had just gone mad. Dad had Blaze's back foot up and was clearing out a stone or something with the carving knife. It was the strangest thing! I asked why he didn't have his pick with him and he looked up and stared at me like I was a ghost or something. I wondered if I was really there at all, or just dreaming. Anyhow, he must have caught Blaze's foot with the knife or something, and he suddenly kicked Dad in the hip and jumped away. I ran in to try to get hold of him, and Dad started calling after me to stop. Blaze turned around to us, but I think he was spooked by Dad's torch and he was still all wild and he kicked again, and reared up. He got Dad in the chest and Dad fell right down and was, like, choking. He yelled 'get rid of the ruddy horse! Let him go!' so I dropped the reins and Blaze ran away."

She stopped and took another drink of her water.

"I don't remember clearly what happened next. I know Dad got back up, and I found the knife. He was crying, Dad was, and he told me to throw the knife away. He was so sad, and I didn't know what was going on. I remember I told him about Nathan, and he said, 'I know, you silly child. I know he is.' And then I thought; Dad killed him. It was Dad. I went crazy. I didn't mean to hurt him. Or I wanted to hurt him but I never would of killed him. I slashed him once across the chest and blood came through. I was a bit shocked. Then Silver Blaze was back, suddenly there out of the shadows and all wild. Dad was crying and saying he was sorry, and he tried to get Blaze's reins. Blaze was still stamping and crazy though. I got caught between him and a gorse bush and I thought he'd kill me then. Dad tried to get in there too to get me out, but Blaze screamed and jumped. He jumped over me and over the bush, and Dad came right at me, and I went to him, and I stabbed right into him. I didn't mean to! I really didn't mean to kill him, but I was crazy and the horse was wild and it all went wrong!" She dissolved into sobs and stopped talking.

John and Sherlock sat back, and Chief Inspector Gregson came forward.

"Edith, I'm sorry, I know you've been through a lot, but you need to come with me now."

She nodded and tried to stop crying. "The stupid thing is, I got back here and Alan told me there wasn't a mark on Nathan. He said it looked like he'd choked on his sick. And then I realised that Dad hadn't done anything at all! It was me all along."

"Is that why you said he'd been at home the other day?" John asked. "You said he was still here when you went out to see Nathan."

She nodded. "I just thought; he's dead because of me. All because of me. I didn't want people to think he'd stolen the horse, 'cause he'd never do that." She swiped at her tears with her bare hands.

"All right, Edith," Gregson said. "Let's take you over to the police station and take the whole statement down properly."

She stood up. "What will happen then?" she asked. "Am I going to prison? I murdered him, didn't I?"

"I can't say right now. Come along now."

They followed Sherlock and John from the house. When they got to the doorway, there was a commotion going on. There was a silver car marked 'Doberman Security' in the lane, trying to get past the Gregson's car. When the driver saw John and Sherlock he reversed back to a sensible position and rolled his window down.

"Will you be long?" He asked. "I've got an appointment."

"Yes, I was hoping to talk to you," Sherlock said, striding forward.

The man got out of his car and was starting towards Sherlock when Edith screamed.

"That's him! That's the man with the drugs!" She was frozen in horror.

The man wasn't though. He turned and ran back up the lane. John darted after him, vaulted the wall and was quickly on his heels, and Sherlock was straight after them. John missed his footing but caught the man's legs as he fell, bringing them both down to the floor. He got a hard boot in his face for his trouble, and he was forced to let the man go while the world spun and swayed for a while.

Sherlock was already there though, and he held the man securely to the floor while Gregson ran up behind them.

"Now why would you run from us?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry," the man said. "Sorry, I thought you were…."

"Police?" Sherlock asked. "No such luck. If my friend is badly hurt, you'll find I won't be nearly as gentle as the police."

He let Gregson take over and walked back to where John was huddled into a ball on the road.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock asked, touching his shoulder.

John picked his head up to reveal a fairly impressive face full of blood. Sherlock winced.

"I thig it's just by dose," John said, touching it gingerly. "And baybe a bust lib. Ub…" he started digging through his pockets to find something to stem the blood flow.

"Oh, here…" Sherlock took his handkerchief out and gently mopped John up a bit. John frowned at him and took the handkerchief to do it himself. "Do you think you'll need to go to hospital?" Sherlock asked.

"I hobe not. Shall we go bag do the hodel?"

"Do you think you can walk all that way?"

"Yep. If the bleedin's stobbed by the dime we get there, I don' need hosbital."

"You're the doctor."

"Yeah. Just bake sure I don' faind or anything."

Sherlock hesitated, concerned. "Are you joking?"

John considered. "Half ad half."

Sherlock grinned and helped him to his feet. Gregson was already cautioning the security man, and Edith was sitting like a wilting flower on the garden wall.

"I hope they're lenient with her," Sherlock muttered.


	12. Chapter 12

Epilogue

"So, the security guy was in cahoots with Straker?" Lestrade asked.

"He was," Sherlock said. They were sitting in the armchairs in 221B Baker Street with a cup of tea apiece. "He had the knowledge of the security systems and the ability to disable them, and Straker had the ability with the horse. They agreed together that it could be done if they worked as a team. The security man's name was Thomas Blackwell…"

"Blackwell?" John asked as he lay on the sofa with his eyes closed. "Same name as Jennifer's Lad's owner."

"Yes, his half-brother in fact. Gregson's taken the owner and that Brown character from Mapleton in to talk to them too. It seems that the plot extended quite some distance. So Thomas Blackwell's job was to disable the security and to give the poison to Clarke. Blackwell says that Straker gave him the LSD tabs to hand on, and I believe him. Straker probably bought the tabs from a stranger and added the sedative himself. I'm fairly sure only intended to make Clarke sleep and didn't know that the tabs had been made by an incompetent fool, but he was wary enough to try to ensure his daughter didn't take the extra dose. When Clarke was safely asleep, he led the horse out onto the moor with the kitchen knife that poor Edith saw him with, and seemed to be intending to hobble the horse. Probably nothing permanent; just enough to take him out the running for Saturday. It was entirely fortuitous that Blackwell returned to King's Pyland to check the equipment." He paused. "Well, I say _fortuitous…_"

"You arranged for him to come back?" Lestrade asked.

"Well I knew that it must have been someone at Doberman. I had been hoping to interview him when we'd finished with Edith, but she saw him and it was no longer necessary."

Mrs Hudson bustled in with a mug and a plate. "I brought you another cup of tea, John. And some cake."

John opened his eyes and sat up. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"Why don't I get cake?" Sherlock asked.

"You didn't get hurt," Mrs Hudson said.

"Yes, and I think it really is your turn," John said through a mouthful of cake. "I got knocked down twice on one case and you were untouched. It really is unfair."

"Oh it was a little knock!" Sherlock said.

"He needed two stitches," Mrs Hudson said.

"I know! I was there! I took him to the hospital when he was being all stubborn but barely able to stand. I think you'll find I'm looking after John perfectly well."

"Well, Gregson seems perfectly happy with it all," Lestrade said, bringing them back to the case. "I've also been contacted by a doctor Philmore who wants to come and work for me. Gregson says he doesn't want to lose him though."

"No, he's the only decent man that he's got," Sherlock said.

"Stafford wasn't bad in the end," John said. "She was just overworked, that's all."

"Stafford?" Lestrade said. "That name rings a bell. I think she's put in for a transfer down here too."

Sherlock smiled. "And you thought I'd offend them all."

"Well, I only had your past form to go on. Maybe you're finally maturing, Sherlock."

Mrs Hudson laughed. "Don't hold your breath, Detective Inspector. He still hasn't rehung my curtains. Don't think I've forgotten, young man."

"You threw my liver away!" Sherlock called after her as she went into the kitchen. "You don't deserve your curtains!"

"I beg your pardon?" she said, turning to him.

"Nothing," he muttered. He sank into his chair a bit.

Lestrade looked over to John. "How's it all going with you?" he asked. "Aside from the face, I mean."

"Well, I haven't been served with divorce papers yet, and I'm seeing Ben at four o'clock, and I'm allowed to stay and do bedtime. Mary won't be there, but it's all progress. At least I'm allowed in the flat."

"Well, I hope it all settles down soon."

"Thanks."

"I'd better be off." Lestrade pulled himself up. "Thanks for the tea, Mrs Hudson."

"You're welcome. I'll come down with you; I've got a box of cupcakes I want you to take down to the station."

"My force is getting fat, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh they're allowed a bit of cake every now and again."

Lestrade waved again, and they left John and Sherlock alone. John was sitting up now, and looking tense. His eyes kept flickering to his phone.

"Shall we walk there?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"If we walk we could set off now, and you wouldn't have to sit about the flat waiting for ages."

John frowned. "Sherlock, you can't come to my access time."

"Why not? Anyway, I wasn't suggesting that. I'll walk you there to make sure you get there safely, and then meet you at six thirty to make sure you get safely home."

John boggled. "In case I get…. Oh. You want to make sure I don't pass the time anywhere inappropriate."

Sherlock flushed. "No, I just…"

"Like you set my computer so that I can't access inappropriate sites."

"No, I didn't, and why were you trying?"

"If you must know, I was trying to do something with some of my accounts to see if there's a way of disabling them while I'm paying them off."

"Oh. I deleted your accounts. I deleted all of them."

"How? You can't unless… Oh."

"You can pay me back later."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sherlock watched him nervously, but when he opened his eyes, there was a faint smile there.

"What happened to 'I can't control this'?" John asked.

"I'm not trying to control you." Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows. "I'm just making absolutely sure you control yourself."

John grinned. "Come on then. Let's walk to Mary's. There shouldn't be a rule that I can't let my friend see my son when I do."

"Yes," Sherlock said, standing up and reaching for his coat. "And when we get back, you can hang Mrs Hudson's curtains. You're clearly mature enough for the task."


End file.
